


my teeth ache to taste you

by Aegrisomnia89



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Canon, Attempted Murder, Blood and Violence, Choking, Death Threats, Don't Let Ichigo Fool You, Feral Behavior, Fighting Kink, First Kiss, Frottage, Grimmjow being Grimmjow, Grimmjow is a Huge Fucking Virgin, Grimmjow's Inner Monologue, He's a Huge Fucking Virgin Too, Heavy makeout session, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Violent Kissing, Violent Thoughts, Virginity, poor Ichigo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegrisomnia89/pseuds/Aegrisomnia89
Summary: Grimmjow POV. Random encounter before Ichigo goes to Hueco Mundo leaves Grimmjow Feeling Things In His Chest. Pity he doesn't know how to articulate a single one of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this for like two or three years and finally remembered I wrote it. I don't think it's excellent, but I enjoy writing Grimmjow. He's a lot of fun and I find his headspace fascinating.

This boy.

This fucking _boy_.

His knuckles scraped raw and bleeding, his chest burning, teeth and gums itching, the hole in his stomach gaping and empty, and still the boy _resisted_. Grimmjow roared in his face, swiping at him with his hands curled like claws. The boy dodged, barely, and threw back with spit and fire and steel.

Blood streaked their faces, sweat drenched their hair, and their swords grew hot and heavy in their hands, and _still_ the boy.

The _fucking_ boy.

Did. Not. _Yield_.

What was it, then? Was it the same as the first time they had crossed blades? What _was_ it that had kept _this_ one fighting, when the other one had died all too easily? What kept the flame burning within him? Revenge? Grimmjow could only barely understand the concept; if you were too weak to protect in the first place, what claim did you ever really have? He had torn the boy’s bitch friend from his side as easily as he tore the sleeve of the shinigami _kosode_, and still he had fought on with laughable strength and pathetic speed, as though he were actually a _match_.

But then that _thing_.

Whatever it was, and wherever it had come from, deep inside the boy, it meant something, and it had _scarred_ him. He was never going to forget that, and he was never going to _let_ himself forget it, either. Grimmjow wore the scar like a badge, refused to have it properly tended. Why would he let them take this from him? The boy—_Ichigo_, he reminded himself, _Ichigo Kurosaki,_ the taste of his name across his tongue like the sweet bite of copper—had given it to him, and it was a gift.

No one, not even Aizen, could take it from him. It was etched into his flesh, deeper than the tattoo of his rank, deeper than his bones. It was an imprint, a _brand_, a claiming of something that belonged only to Kurosaki and to no one else, ever. _This is his_, Grimmjow wanted to say, sticking his chin out proudly. _Look what this fucking kid did to me. Look what he __**did**__._

It was a scar and a reminder—it was a _promise_.

Grimmjow kept his promises and this one made him desperate with hungering, to feel Kurosaki’s blade against his, to feel the blood thundering through his veins when he fit his hands around his scrawny neck and _squeezed_, to see the look in his eyes when he realized he was about to die and to taste the tears on his cheeks—but not so soon, he hoped, and not too easily.

More than anything, the scar was the promise of something greater, of something _more_ than Aizen had given him. He had power and strength, speed and longevity, but very little had been given to him that he had not already taken for himself across the wastelands of Hueco Mundo.

The white sands offered him prey, but nothing _worth_ his time.

Kurosaki...he was prey, but he was _more_.

Tosen had taken his arm for his rebellion, for his assumption of what Aizen truly wanted. It had hurt, but it was nothing compared to the gash across his chest. It didn’t _throb_ the way the boy’s attack did. He could feel it pulse in time with his heartbeat, the jagged, broken edges reddening and tightening as the skin stretched into the scar he’d carry with him the rest of his life. The arm he couldn’t care less about. His mark, the ‘6’ he had carried on his body for so long, none of it mattered.

_Nothing_ mattered, except now they were here, in this shitty little town again, and he was whole and Kurosaki was _there_, and his jaws ached with a desire that carried over from his days roaming Hueco Mundo and feasting on those who were too weak to survive the devastation he brought with him.

He _hungered_ for this boy—this human boy, whose hands sported soft callouses, whose knuckles were scarred from fights long since won, whose eyes were hard and honeyed, whose hair lit the night sky like a single flame as Grimmjow came at him again and again and again, searching for that _thing_ that had torn at his body and left him with something that kept him aching during the cold nights.

_Fuck_, how he _wanted_ him.

Ichigo screamed at him, lunging with that preternatural speed he had somehow attained during the time they had been apart—_Separated_, Grimmjow thought, as though it was unfair—and as his sword sliced beneath his arm and through his jacket, Grimmjow grinned so broadly his face felt as though it were about to split in half.

Time was up.

There was nowhere left to run, nowhere left to hide. The arbitrary time limit Aizen had set upon them had come to an end, the human woman was among their best and most dangerous _Espada_, and Kurosaki had _transformed_. This wasn’t the same angry little fuck who had attacked him months ago. Still angry, still a little fuck, but he had changed, and the difference was like night and day.

Grimmjow roared his delight and took chase, scorching the sky with his Cero and his laughter. Ichigo, Ichigo, _Ichigo_, this fucking _kid_ playing at being a hero, hiding all that _raw power_ in that scrawny, wiry little body of his, putting up such a _fight_ and they expected him to stay away? To sit on his ass in Hueco Mundo with nothing to do, simply because _Aizen_ said so?

He didn’t think so.

Not when his blood _sang_ with defiance, not when destruction rained from his fingertips, not when the taste of the sweat on their skin ran into the corners of his mouth and his gums bloodied from where he kept biting his tongue.

Not when _Kurosaki_ existed, and not when he was within reach.

They collided a final time, a black and white meteorite that fell from the sky and drove into the ground with enough force to break through the asphalt. Dirt and smoke filled the air and Grimmjow inhaled the carnage with a gasp. His vision swam and he tasted more blood in his mouth, but there was warmth beneath him—_Ichigo Kurosaki, look what you fucking __**did**__ to me!—_and he grasped the boy’s neck with both hands, bringing his thumbs to rest against a pulsing jugular that bobbed with every swallow.

_You can’t run, you can’t _ _ **hide** _ _._

Grimmjow was aware, all too late, that he was shuddering. His skin crawled along his arms and down his spine, twitching, hairs raising to stand on end. Blood pounded in his ears, the bone on his cheek brittle like glass, and he looked down his nose into Ichigo’s bloodied face and caught his eyes—_those eyes_.

Defiant.

_Fiery_.

That’s what he wanted to see. _That’s_ what Kurosaki still had to offer him. Those eyes and that look, that sneer that felt like it could flay the flesh from his bones, that smart mouth and the strength in his hands—scrawny for a kid, but lithe and strong, everything about him belying the intense spiritual pressure curled just beneath his skin. If he bit him, Grimmjow wondered if he could pull that power free.

He tightened his grip and leaned close, biting his lip as the kid began to struggle; he aimed a punch that would have hurt had it connected, but fake shinigami strength was still nothing compared to an _Espada_, and Grimmjow caught his fist and pinned it to the ground by his head. Only one hand on his throat now, and what a silent _confession_ it was, to resist the urge to show him his true form, right here in this dingy little shithole of a town.

“Think you can beat me?” Grimmjow hissed into Ichigo’s face, his breath hot and moist. “I fucking hope you try, you little shit. _Fuck_, I hope you try.”

“Get off me, you _freak_,” Ichigo snapped back, straining under the heavy weight of Grimmjow’s hands. His feet kicked out, scrabbling against the broken asphalt, but the _Espada_ threw a leg over his hip and straddled him neatly.

“That’s the shit I like to hear,” he crooned. “Keep that for later, yeah? Don’t you fucking forget what you owe me, shit-for-brains; I want you to myself when you reach Hueco Mundo. You come find _me_, or I’ll fucking kill _everything_ you’ve ever loved.”

“Get _off!_”

Ichigo bucked, arching off the ground in a weaselly attempt to throw his captor off. Grimmjow clamped down with his knees against the boy’s sides and leaned close, opening his mouth close to the hot, thick cord of muscle he knew ran directly through the kid’s neck.

How could his gums _itch?_ His teeth felt too big for his mouth, too many and too sharp. His anatomy betrayed him, and he felt trapped, locked in a body that wasn’t his own, caged by his bones and tormented by the release that lay beneath him.

His _prey_.

He had captured him...and he...he fucking _earned_ this.

“Wuh-What are you doing?” Ichigo asked, and this time he heard real _concern_ in his voice—at the heart of it, a _fear_ so pale and thin it would have pierced his heart if he had had one.

“Fuck, what you _do_ to me,” he groaned, pressing his nose against Ichigo’s neck. The skin there was bloodied, yet smooth, fine hairs tickling the tip of his nose. It was so _soft_.

In the Before, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have bitten down hard enough to snap the bone, and he’d have torn the flesh free with vicious jerks of his head. Blood dripping down his throat, he would have swallowed whole. He could still taste blood, but it was his own this time. It was a sharp, bitter taste, and he didn’t like it. He wanted to replace it with something better, something _sweeter_.

Kurosaki smelled so good. Sweat-slick with a strong pulse thundering just beneath his skin, the temptation of a heartbeat between his teeth almost too much to bear, because what kind of power it was, to hold the life of someone in his jaws. Grimmjow’s mouth _watered_ and as his lips parted, he told himself, _Just one fucking bite, just one, __**shit**__ I swear…._

He scraped his prominent canines against that soft skin and felt Ichigo’s breath hitch. Breath that _he_ stole, he thought to himself, triumphantly. That was _his_ now, like the scar was Kurosaki’s, like this moment under the stars after he had beaten the kid black and blue and received fair turnabout was _theirs_, together. Ichigo squirmed and tried to wriggle his other arm out from where it lay trapped beneath him, hissing through clenched teeth.

“What the _fuck?!_” he half-whispered, in near-hysterics. Grimmjow exhaled a shuddering breath and pressed his open mouth along the column of Ichigo’s throat, the very tip of his tongue stealing tastes of salt and blood and fear. His teeth pressed against his skin, sinking deep but never breaking past the surface.

_Not yet, not yet,_ he chanted to himself as he nosed Kurosaki’s head to the side, his teeth against the top of the boy’s jaw. He wasn’t his _yet_, but he would be.

_Soon, soon_.

“You’re a goddamn dream,” he murmured against the shell of Ichigo’s ear. “I’m gonna rip your fucking heart out and eat it. I’m gonna fuck the hole so deep you’ll feel it in your _soul_. _Shit_...you don’t even know.”

“You’re fucking _sick_,” Ichigo spat, bucking again, futilely. “You think you can show up here and threaten my friends and my family? Fuck off back to Hueco Mundo—I’ll be there soon enough and we can finish this!”

“Keep sweet talkin’ me like that,” Grimmjow laughed, low and hollow against the kid’s chin. “You got no idea, the shit I’ve got planned for us. You an’ me? We’re gonna bring down the whole damn house.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“There’s not gonna be a stone left standing when I’m through with you. I’m gonna beat your ass all over the place..._shit_, I can’t wait to have you beneath me again. You better not beg—you beg and I’ll rip out your guts and make you wear them_.”_

Ichigo shuddered as Grimmjow dragged his teeth the short distance from chin to bottom lip, and there the skin caught against his eyeteeth, plump and soft and pale pink. When had he come so close? What was that look on the kid’s face? Flushed and damp, tiny hairs sticking to his forehead, blood seeping from a cut above his eye and mouth open and gaping like fish—_stupid, he looks so __**stupid—**_but his eyes _hard_ with a look that cut like a _knife_, fear and anger and hatred rolled into one and _fuck_ it was like a punch to the _gut_, right to his hollow hole and the thought of Kurosaki driving his fist right _through_ it was something new to consider, something that made the space inside flip over and he was _dizzy…_.

Stomach churning, Grimmjow released his wrist and brought his other hand back to Ichigo’s throat, long fingers spanning the entire distance beneath the underside of his jaw. He pressed down, waiting with baited breath to catch the choking noise that erupted from the kid in a fit of coughing. It passed right into his open mouth and he shut his teeth with a _click_, keeping it trapped inside of him. One more thing that was _his_.

Ichigo wrenched his other arm free with a grunt; his hands squeezed Grimmjow’s wrists, but he couldn’t force the _Espada_ to budge. His efforts were almost cute, and _definitely_ welcome. The kid who refused to stop fighting, who refused to back down even when the odds were against him, whose skin smelled like sweat and death and fight and _fuck_ and who showed him the absolute _time_ of his life, more than anything else, more than any_one_ else.

“What’s wrong?” Ichigo bit out, his eyes hard, “I thought you said you only needed one arm t’ beat me!”

“But two’s so much more _fun_,” Grimmjow groaned around his crazed smile. He pressed down harder, cutting off Ichigo’s reply into a low gurgle. _Fuck_ he was good like this, all that power and all that drive pressing back up against him, resisting him in body _and_ spirit….no one else was like this—no one else _did this to him._

Grimmjow rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and rocked his hips against Kurosaki. His cock twitched against his thigh—he hadn’t even noticed he was hard, but now it became impossible to ignore—_what you __**do**__ to me, fucking goddamn—_and he knew it was time to leave.

Pulling himself off of Kurosaki _hurt_. Removing his hands from around his neck felt like he was peeling his own skin off, and his wrists _burned_ where Ichigo had loosened his hold. There was that _ache_ again, the pull inside of him that kept him near, kept him burning, kept him _longing_ for the opportunity to do this _again_.

He didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to be the one to put a stop to what they had going on, but _shit_ he knew what it would mean the next time they fought, knew the clash of their blades would ring louder, the taste of their blood and sweat would taste all the sweeter, and he _knew_ that when he finally beat Kurosaki down, the victory..._god_, the victory would finally fill the fucking void inside of him and he wouldn’t _ache_ this way, filled with nothing, empty and hungry like he was always _starving—_how did the kid _starve him like this?_ How could he be so _hungry?_

Ichigo moved beneath him, shifting tentatively in that way a cornered animal moved when they thought they saw an opening for escape. Grimmjow sat back and watched him, considering him, the narrow field of his vision focused on the kid squirming between his legs.

His throat was bared.

_Fuck_, it’d be so _easy_.

“Get th’ fuck outta my sight,” Grimmjow growled, launching to his feet and giving Ichigo a solid kick to the ribs. “I better not see your face again ‘til you get t’ Hueco Mundo!”

“Asshole! _You’re_ the one who came _here!_”

“_Tch._”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I caught a bug and I guess this isn't the last chapter like I had originally planned. Nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy and thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! It really makes my day!

He hadn’t meant for this to happen.

It started off like it always did: Grimmjow couldn’t sleep. He didn’t really need to on a daily basis, after all, Starrk only slept to pass the time, out of boredom, and while Grimmjow _was_ bored he couldn’t bring himself to laze around, not while he _knew_ Kurosaki was so close. The kid’s initial breach into Hueco Mundo had been reported hours ago and since then he could do little more than pace through the halls.

His skin itched.

_Too tight._

Kurosaki was so _close_ and yet still so far away. He probably hadn’t even crossed the sands yet. It’d be hours more before he breached the perimeter of Las Noches and yet the knowledge that he was finally _here_ had Grimmjow prowling through the castle with a scowl on his face that drove _fraccion_ out of his way and kept the rest of his _Espada_ brothers and sisters at a distance.

He liked to think no one else knew how much he had been looking forward to this upcoming battle, but in recent days it had been brought to his attention that he wasn’t anywhere _near_ as subtle as he thought he had been. His last indiscretion that brought him to the human world had cost him another ripe discipline by Aizen, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

There wasn’t _anything_ that could stop him from crushing Kurosaki’s face into the ground _this_ time, and he’d be _damned_ if he was going to be made to sit down and wait his turn like a fucking _child_.

After all, no one else _deserved_ Kurosaki.

The high-arched hallways led out into the courtyards. Grimmjow wove his way between pillars, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and fingers clenched so hard against his palms he could feel the warmth of blood seeping beneath his fingernails. An acrid wind whipped around his legs, dragging sand across the marbled floors; the sound it made as it passed through the hole in his stomach was low and mournful, like the cries of lesser hollows.

In the distance, he heard _real_ hollows howling: thin, piercing wails that cut through the darkness and echoed through the narrow pathways of the castle. He _knew_ those noises, knew the exact pitch and timbre that indicated the start of a hunt, or the capture of prey.

_Is it Kurosaki?_

He hoped so. The kid would make short work of anything that tried to halt his progress so he wasn’t _worried_...rather, he jealously guarded the notion that the first fight had to be _his_. That’s what this was all leading up to, wasn’t it? The woman they had lured into their domain, the taunting, the shallow skirmishes that left the Shinigami open and vulnerable, Aizen proving that he was _better_ than any of them...those were just the details, the setup making way for the main event.

Grimmjow couldn’t _begin_ to imagine a world where he was denied this battle, this private _war_ that had come to wage between the two of them. He knew Kurosaki was itching for it, too. He may not have said as much, but Grimmjow recognized the look in his eyes and the scent in the air when they last fought.

This was _personal_ and it needed no definition, needed nothing more than a sword in their hands and the will to meet head-on. _Fuck_, he hated to think about it, ‘cause nothing he imagined was ever going to compare to the real thing.

Just the _thought_ of that kid drove him crazy. No one else did this to him, no one else drove him half out of his mind just digging through the _memory_ of their last battle. Hell, he didn’t give a shit about any of the higher-ranked _Espada_; they were all too busy licking Aizen’s boots and worshiping the ground he walked on. They’d never give him the time of day and the aspect of fighting any of them didn’t light a fire in his gut the way Kurosaki did.

This was _different_, and every time he paused and tried to place words to the feelings roused in his chest he only wound up frustrated and angry that he couldn’t just take it out on Kurosaki himself. The only thing that felt _right_, the only thing in his life that made _sense_ was the kiss of his knuckles against Kurosaki’s face.

Sneering at nothing and no one, Grimmjow wrestled one hand from a pocket and scratched at the scar bisecting his chest. The new skin itched in the cold. It felt too tight, like it was pulling at the edges, shrinking, _withdrawing_. Times like these he felt like he needed to find a place to claw his way out of his own skin before he was dragged too deep inside of himself. These...human bodies were useful, but there were...moments where he felt trapped.

Maybe it was thoughts of Kurosaki doing that.

_God_, that asshole was buried so fucking deep beneath his skin.

It wasn’t _fair_. It wasn’t _right_ that he be made to wait while other, lesser _arrancar_ had their fun. He had _earned_ this right. The boy was supposed to be _his_, this moment was meant to be _theirs_.

Kurosaki had made a _promise_.

Too late Grimmjow realized he was hard, his cock stiff and trapped beneath the heavy layers of his _hakama_. Fucking annoying, that’s what it was. There was no one here he wanted to throw down with and fighting was the only other option to get rid of all this...this..._fire_. Lip curling to expose a sharp canine, Grimmjow trudged his way back to the set of empty rooms he had once dimly acknowledged as _his_ and slammed the door behind him.

A fine layer of dust covered everything; he couldn’t remember the last time he had used these rooms, let alone bothered to make them his own. There was an unmade bed and a window that looked out over the dunes. The walls and floor were white. Everything was fucking _white_, bleached bones and emptiness. Somehow it was made lonelier than black. Grimmjow preferred black, had ever since he had met Kurosaki.

He wore those Shinigami robes too well. It made his hair stand out, and when Grimmjow looked out over the silvery expanse of the sands, he tried to fool himself into thinking he could see the brilliant flame of Kurosaki’s hair against the dunes, a marker of his progress.

His cock jumped again and he grabbed at himself through his _hakama_, snarling when the ache persisted. He couldn’t will this one away, it seemed.

Throwing himself against the dusty, cold sheets of the bed, Grimmjow tore at the tie holding his clothes tight and pushed the fabric far enough down his hips to free his member. It slapped against his abdomen, the head pointing down the middle of his Hollow hole. Staring at the ceiling, he took himself in hand and began to tug, fingers following a rhythmic pattern.

He tried to move it along as fast as he could, unwilling to waste his time like an overeager pup when he could be scouting around. He tried to think of things that had worked in the past: his own destructive violence, slapping Szayel around, clawing his way from the bottom of a pile in a fight, Aizen’s hand clenched in his hair after his birth—but the memories all fell stale from his mind, dull and empty like everything else in Hueco Mundo.

His erection flagged in his hand and he inhaled sharply through his nose, mildly disappointed that this, too, had been taken from him by this sad, empty world.

It seemed the only thing he had to look forward to, now, was Kurosaki.

That fucking _kid_, with fire in his eyes and steel in his hand and something so big inside of him he could barely control it. He was out there somewhere, possibly alone, overflowing with some stupid sense of revenge and justice that would be better served in _their_ war, against _him_.

He just wanted to feel those fucking hands around his wrists again, Kurosaki’s neck in his grip, and his hot, strong body writhing in pain beneath him as he pulled the life out of him.

His cock pulsed, and the next stroke blew sensation up his spine; Grimmjow dug his heels into the bed and lifted his hips, lip caught between his teeth as he took advantage of the sudden responsiveness of his body, jacking himself hard and fast. _Fuck_, this _kid_.

Remembering their fight was what did this to him, the way Kurosaki reacted with that speed, meeting every swing of his blade and giving back just as good. If he tried, he could picture the kid’s face, all sweaty and flushed and trembling. Was he scared? _Shit_, he hoped so, ‘cause nothing was as good as fighting scared—fighting _through_ it, chancing death and pain and accepting the risk of it all. Kurosaki threw himself into battle without a thought, it seemed, but _fear_ washed off of him in _waves_.

It was intoxicating, _he_ was intoxicating. A damn _drug_.

Grimmjow gasped, mouth falling open as he arched his back, thrusting into his hand. His other gripped the musty sheets, white-knuckled as he imagined what Kurosaki’s hair would feel like when he grabbed him by it and threw him across the dunes. He’d tear it out in clumps and breathe in the bloodied ends, the scent of him soft and sweet and unlike anything in Hueco Mundo.

He wondered at the strength in Kurosaki’s body, the hidden depths of reserve he kept, just for fighting, just for _them_. Grimmjow’s hand slipped over the head of his erection, smearing pre-cum and he wondered, briefly, what Kurosaki’s mouth would feel like.

What if it was _him_, who held the upper hand?

What if it was _his_ hands around Ichigo’s wrists?

“Oh _fu-uuck_,” he moaned, bending his legs and spreading them wider.

What if it was _Ichigo_ on top of him, grinding hard against his stomach as he held his throat in his hands and leaning close to huff his hot breath over Grimmjow’s neck? What if it was _his_ teeth against his skin, testing and tasting, nipping and teasing?

His balls tightened and his gut felt like it dropped out of him; the muscles in his forearm strained with the force of his jacking, and had he been at all aware of himself he might have felt the pain of the friction as his foreskin slipped back and forth over the reddened tip of his cock.

But all he saw behind his closed eyes was Kurosaki filling his vision with that _look_, with his mouth the way it was and his fingers tightening around his neck and the hard ridge of his thighs clamped around Grimmjow’s sides.

With those _eyes_.

Would they fuck in the midst of battle? Would they tear at each other with the same ferocity? He wondered, and he hoped, and his body seized, the muscles in his thighs jumping as cum streaked his chest and coated his hand.

“_Fucking shit_,” he panted, his entire body boneless and floating. A buzz hummed through his veins, blood rushing not unlike it did in the heat of battle. A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin and he had left an imprint of blood on his cock from where his nails had bitten into his hand.

Grimmjow stared at himself, at his chest heaving in and out, at his dick as it slowly softened, at the subtle tremors still running up his thighs, and fell back onto the bed, his eyes fluttering shut.

_Ichigo, you piece of_ _ ** shit** _ _._

_ **Look** _ _ what you did to me…._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you soooo much to everyone who reviewed, read, and left kudos! I originally hadn't planned to write anymore, but I decided to try, so here's the next chapter! I honestly have no idea where I'm going with this anymore and no real plans, so it's gonna be a surprise where they end up for me too! Thank you so much again, I appreciate all the love and support this story has received so far!

The wind carried sand across his skin, buried granules deep in his weeping wounds, and the artificial sun beat down on him like a hammer. Grimmjow struggled to breathe, struggled to move, struggled to survive from deep wounds that drained him of his life and robbed him of any energy that might have been left after his battle. His eyelids felt so _heavy_, and he fought to keep his eyes open, fought against the pull of sleep that kept tugging on the edges of his consciousness.

_No, I’m not...fuckin’ **done** yet…._

He could still fight! But his arms wouldn’t work properly. He bade one to fucking _move_, but it just lay there against the hot sand, useless and lifeless. His legs refused to obey. Turning his head was nothing more than wasted effort. Even his fingers felt stiff, like granite. God, he _ached_.

But Ichigo was still out there! He was nearby, at least—that much, Grimmjow knew for certain. He could _smell_ him, that strange scent of his, all high-wired nerves and strength broiling right under his skin. He could smell Ichigo despite the overwhelming stench of his _own_ blood, which he ignored like it was little more than a nuisance. There was someone else, too, a stranger that smelled of sweat and...and something else.

Nnoitra was dead; he didn’t know how, he didn’t fucking _care_ how, because Ichigo was alive and that’s all that mattered. That was the only reason he needed to try and get the fuck up, because _he wasn’t finished godamnit, he could **still** fight!_

Groaning, Grimmjow forced himself to move. He kicked out a leg and rolled over onto his stomach, gathering his arms beneath him and pushing as hard as he could—his hands sunk into the sand, up to his wrists, his arms trembled and threatened to give out, but he grit his teeth and _forced_ his stupid body to do what he asked of it, because he was _Grimmjow_ and he wasn’t going to lay around on some dune waiting for death to take him.

He wasn’t _weak_.

He wasn’t _beaten_.

And Ichigo, Ichigo had _said_, he had _promised_ him that they—that this wasn’t—

“Grimmjow!”

He whipped his head up, eyes following after the sound, the direction it had come from, and there he was, jogging toward him, an expression on his face like he had never seen before, something pulling and twisting his mouth in two different directions before giving up and settling into that frown Grimmjow had come to know and despise. He snarled, because he didn’t wanna be caught on his hands and knees like this.

Fucking _pathetic_. Just wait ‘til he got on his feet, he’d show Ichigo that this was _nothing_, and that he still had plenty of fight left in him. He cold go again, a hundred—no, a _thousand_ times more. Wait ‘til he sunk his talons into Ichigo’s sweet flesh and ripped his stupid heart right out his body and feasted on it. Wait until he doused the landscape in _his_ blood and watched his stupid life slip away.

“Fuck you, Kurosaki, I’m gonna—,“ Grimmjow started to rasp before blood filled his lungs and throat and spilled from between his lips. He watched it color his arms, the sand, watched it run down the slope of the dune in thin rivulets, collecting grains on its journey until it balled and hardened.

This wasn’t _him_, this wasn’t who he _was._ He wasn’t _weak_ and he couldn’t let—Ichigo _couldn’t_ see this part of him, couldn’t know that Grimmjow was defeated, because then he wouldn’t—what would the _point_ of fighting be if he had already—?

“You’re not gonna do _anything_,” Ichigo said, kneeling in the sand by Grimmjow’s side and reaching an arm beneath his chest.

Grimmjow’s eyes widened—this was it, this was _fucking_ it, and he couldn’t even resist—and on instinct, on an impulse that ran so deep in his veins he couldn’t have stopped it had he even been aware that he could, he grabbed Ichigo’s wrist and sank his teeth deep into the soft flesh of his forearm, biting _deep_ until his eyeteeth punctured the flesh. Just as soon as his jaw had clamped down, it let up, another reflex, and Grimmjow fell to the side, scrambling his legs and kicking up sand as he tried to put distance between them.

_Not like this_, he thought to himself_, I’m not gonna let you fuckin’ do me in like **this** you bastard piece of **shit**!_

“_Shit!_” Ichigo yelped, pulling his arm close to his chest and holding it tight. He grimaced and Grimmjow watched him look down at himself, down to the perfect imprint of teeth stamped across pale skin and dark blood welling up from two _deep_ puncture wounds.

Grimmjow stared with wild eyes and ran his tongue across his lower lip.

“I wasn’t gonna hurt you,” Ichigo said, looking up with...with an expression. Grimmjow didn’t know what it was—he had never seen it before, and he sneered in response because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Don’t touch me,” he said with ragged breath. “_Fuck_ you. I’m not finished. Just gimme a minute an’ I’ll be up. I’m gonna pound you into th’ ground so deep, I’m gonna—“

“_No_,” Ichigo said, his expression hardening like the steel of his blade, ‘til his eyes glinted amber and the finality of his tone silenced Grimmjow mid-sentence. “No, you’re not. You’re _hurt_. You’re practically _dead_. You can’t do _anything_ in this state, and if you try to get up now you’ll only make things harder on yourself.”

Incredible.

The fucking _gall_ of this boy, sitting there and telling him what he wasn’t gonna do, just because _he_ wasn’t the one laying there with a punctured lung and swimming in his own blood.

Grimmjow snarled and immediately tried to get up, to prove that he wasn’t some weakass punk who couldn’t stand on his own two feet, only for Ichigo to lunge forward and take hold of his shoulders, pushing him _back_ and _down_ until the back of Grimmjow’s head hit the sand and all that filled his vision was the image of Ichigo, no less bloodied or bruised, his head a bright flame surrounded by a halo of blue sky.

What was that look on his face?

What were his eyes doing?

Grimmjow groaned and tried to escape the hard hands pinning his shoulders back.

This wasn’t _fair!_ This wasn’t _right! _He was _better_ than this! How could he let Ichigo just—just fuckin’ _handle_ him like this?!

“Get _offa_ me!” he howled as blood burbled up past his lips and dribbled down his face, over the bone teeth affixed to his cheek. “Get th’ fuck _offa_ me, I swear to _fuck_, I’ll _kill_ you!”

“Shut up!” Ichigo snapped back, leaning over him. “You _have_ to slow down, Grimmjow, just...just stop, please.”

He couldn’t stop, though, couldn’t let himself lay there like that. Grimmjow thrashed, using what little strength he had left to fight back against—against whatever it was that Ichigo was doing to him. He couldn’t fucking _stand_ to hear the—the _softness_ in his voice, couldn’t understand what it was that Ichigo was after this time, because the hands that touched him weren’t the hands of someone trying to kill him. He didn’t _want_ those soft touches, didn’t _want_ that steel warmth seeping into his tired bones and making him feel so drowsy. Like it was okay, like he could just...slip away like that and go to sleep. He _couldn’t_ slow down, because slowing down meant giving up, and _Grimmjow_ did not give up. He _couldn’t_.

But Ichigo—_fuck_ him, fuck _everything_ about him—held firm, leaning over him and pinning him and wearing him down until he had expended the last bit of energy he had left. Grimmjow squirmed and growled, but it was useless. Ichigo was in better condition, had gravity and luck on his side. He was determined too, _that_ was something that Grimmjow saw in his eyes that he recognized. And maybe it was enough. It was familiar, and it soothed something inside of him. He was aware of his heart thundering against his insides, feeling for all the world like a ball bouncing around a tiny little room.

And god, how he _ached_.

“Fuck you….Kurosaki…,” Grimmjow panted, closing his eyes and letting his whole body go limp.

“About time,” Ichigo said, a small smile twisting his lips. “You need to rest.”

“I’m not your fuckin’ charity case…I can take care of myself.”

“Obviously.”

Grimmjow cracked open an eye just a sliver, enough to watch his nemesis run a hand through bright red hair. It stuck up weird, held in place by drying blood and sweat. And for the first time he noticed how..._worn_ Ichigo looked. It wasn’t the same as being defeated, or broken. It wasn’t the same as before, either. He looked...frustrated. Tired.

But Grimmjow didn’t care about shit like that. He cared about _fighting_, about ripping Ichigo’s throat out with his teeth, and he cared about _himself_ and _no one_ else, because that’s just how things were. So Ichigo looked tired. So what? Grimmjow was tired too. The only difference was that _he_ wasn’t weak enough to let it show all over his face like that.

But he kept staring, because there was something unique about the way Ichigo looked when he thought no one was watching.

He looked different when he wasn’t frowning.

“I have to leave,” Ichigo said, holding his hand at the back of his neck and looking over his shoulder, across the wasteland at something. Grimmjow wanted to snarl, because how _dare_ he turn his attention away like that, when the biggest threat was practically in his lap? Fuck, if his body wasn’t so heavy he’d lean up and—oh, yeah.

Ichigo’s hands weren’t even on his shoulders anymore. He just felt that way because...because he couldn’t move. No, this time, he was completely immobile. He didn’t think he could even feel his fingers. Not a good sign, but he didn’t really feel like he was dying. Not anymore, at least.

“Leave where?” he croaked, to distract himself from the terrifying realization that his body had become a prison he couldn’t escape from.

“Wherever Aizen is,” Ichigo answered, still looking away.

Distant.

Distracted.

Unfocused.

Grimmjow’s teeth ached as he watched Ichigo’s pulse flutter delicately against his neck when he swallowed.

“_Look at me_,” he demanded raggedly, his voice hoarse and dry against his throat.

Ichigo looked, turning back to Grimmjow with his usual expression, that slight frown that made a crease appear between his eyes. It took effort to wet his throat enough to talk, so it didn’t feel like he had swallowed nothing but sand. His tongue felt dry. He was _thirsty_, for the first time in _years_.

Grimmjow opened both eyes another degree and tried to fix Ichigo with the same kind of look he had been given earlier, stern and serious.

“Don’t...don’t fuckin’ die.”

Ichigo scoffed and started to stand.

“I’m not planning on it,” came the dismissive reply, and Grimmjow growled, because _that wasn’t fucking good enough_. With a monumental effort, he managed to snag a handful of Ichigo’s black _shinigami_ robes, holding tight with a strength he didn’t think he really had in that moment.

“I mean it,” he hissed.

Ichigo stopped and looked down at him. For some reason, it didn’t feel patronizing. He just looked, and Grimmjow felt the hollow space in his stomach collapse in on itself with something intangible.

“I mean it,” he rasped. “Don’t you _dare_ fuckin’ die on me. You...you promised me another fight. As many as I want.”

Ichigo cocked his head to the side and there...there was that small little smile that made his face look soft and punchable. Grimmjow _loathed_ that smile, but the fact that it was directed at him alleviated his disgust a little.

“I did promise that,” Ichigo said.

“An’ I’m gonna collect,” Grimmjow sneered. “Don’t think I’m gonna forget. You beat Aizen. Do whatever th’ fuck it is you hafta do an’ then...an’ then watch your back, Kurosaki. ‘Cause I’m gonna come for you. You better be lookin’ over your shoulder every waking moment.”

“I will,” Ichigo smiled, showing a bit of tooth.

_Fuck_, Grimmjow thought as something hard lodged in his throat.

“I mean it,” he repeated, voice cracking. “I’m not gonna give any warning. I’m gonna tear out your throat an’ spread your insides all over your shitty little town.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Ichigo said, in a way that felt too much like a taunt, like he actually _was_ looking forward to the challenge. Grimmjow felt a surge of adrenaline and immediately tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but his body wasn’t having it this time. He didn’t so much as flinch.

“_Fuck_ you,” he said in parting, as Ichigo turned away.

“Yeah,” he heard, carried by the wind as the soft crunch of Ichigo’s footsteps moved away.

“Yeah, you too.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I'm sorry I haven't responded to everyone's comments but be assured I read them all and I have to say once more, THANK YOU SO MUCH for your interest and support! I truly have no idea what I'm doing and I realize I'm a little all over the place, but I'm really enjoying writing and this is probably the most fun I've had in a while where fanfiction is concerned. So thank you so much for reading and I hope I continue to delight your literary tastebuds! Enjoy this chapter and I hope everyone has a great day!

Time passed differently in Hueco Mundo. For how long he laid there on that sandy dune, trying to remember how to breathe without vomiting blood, Grimmjow didn’t know. He had always been shitty about keeping track, had always measured the passage of time by how long it took for the blood caked under his fingernails and between his teeth to dissipate. Days came and went between each fight and the nights waxed and waned to a tune set to the crunching of bone and the hollow ring of steel. The aching hunger within him was constant, never fulfilled, and so even then Grimmjow never understood how the others just seemed to _know_. That was how it had always been.

But among the dunes there was nothing. Heat and chill winds became his markers. He counted the beats of his heart until he lost his number and then started all over again. He waited and held his breath until the roar of blood in his veins reminded him that he wasn’t fucking _dead_. If he slept, he didn’t remember the moments when he came awake; hunger pains kept him from thinking about anything other than how he was going to find his next meal. Something in him nearly _regressed_ before he finally found the strength to climb to his feet. Who knew how many days it had been. Months? Years? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell, and damn near didn’t care.

He _wouldn’t_ have cared, if it weren’t for that _one thing_.

The shattered blade of his sword lay scattered across the sand under the sky where he had met Kurosaki for the final time. Painstakingly he sniffed out each piece, each little sliver, gathering them in a bundle made out of his torn and bloody jacket until it felt whole. It was broken, maybe beyond repair, but it was _his_ and he wasn’t going to let anyone else have it. Not even the desert itself was going to swallow this, his one possession. Grimmjow clapped a hand over his chest, his nails digging into his scar.

Maybe not his _one_ possession.

Trudging back to the palace on foot was an exercise in patience. How easy it would have been to leap through the air as he was accustomed to. Admitting to himself that his body had not yet recovered took its own toll, and Grimmjow snarled to empty air as he warred with himself over whether or not to risk it. The wound on his shoulder from where Nnoitra had cut him throbbed incessantly, the uneven edges brittle with crusted blood and the center of it raw and gaping. He stank, he knew, like the smell of rot and death. His body would heal from this, eventually, but waiting for that moment was unacceptable. He _couldn’t_ wait, not when he had to—he had to—

What he thought he _had_ to do took precedence over all else, but the moment his boots came into contact with the marble floor of familiar halls, Grimmjow collapsed to his knees and sprawled out, pressing his cheek to the cool stone and closing his eyes. Again, if he slept, he did not remember waking. The next time he opened his eyes, he was in Aizen’s throne room, staring up the dais where his progenitor had often lounged. It looked cold and empty and bleached, like everything else in this fucking place. Grimmjow tilted his head and took the first step, tapping his heel against it like he expected it to come to life and throw him off.

But it was as dead as everything else.

He climbed the stairs, feeling an age pass before he stood before the throne itself...and it stood so much _smaller_ than he expected up close. It barely looked big enough to hold his own frame, let alone Aizen—and perhaps _that_ was where the illusion lied. It was never the throne that had made him appear so much larger than life, but something innate within Aizen himself. _He_ was the reason everything now looked so small and empty. It was difficult to express what he felt in that moment, something between regret and disgust. Aizen had given them all _purpose_, and though Grimmjow couldn’t say the man had their best intentions in mind, he had cared to some degree.

His first memories after being given human form were of the way Aizen had touched him, both hands on his face, cupping his cheeks and tilting his head upward, and Grimmjow, naked and soaked and shivering as his newborn skin struggled to adjust to all of the new sensations bombarding it, staring up in wonder.

“_Your eyes are so blue,”_ Aizen had said, with that benevolent smile of his. It always made Grimmjow warm against his will, when Aizen had looked at him like that, with unspoken praise on his tongue and a fondness in his eyes. He had swept his hand through Grimmjow’s hair, pushing it away from his forehead, and then had given him a set of clothes. Grimmjow had been left to figure clothing out for himself until Ulquiorra helped him with the hakama and boots (which he had _hated_; barefoot was better), and Aizen never said a word one way or the other to see Grimmjow had forgone the more form fitting top altogether in favor of the cropped jacket. If nudity was unacceptable, then he would be as comfortable as he saw fit. Aizen had allowed it.

He had allowed many things in those early days of Grimmjow’s birth, and as time passed in its unusual way, he found his memories of the time before fading. Never fully—he would start sometimes, caught in a daydream where he wandered the desert on all fours and dripped blood from his maw and down the fur of his chest, and then the ache in his entire being would drive him to wander the halls until he inevitably found himself at the foot of the throne, looking up at Aizen and trying to find words to ask him questions that he didn’t even know he had.

And Aizen knew, because he was Aizen and that just seemed to be the way he was. At his lowest, Grimmjow remembered the weak way in which he had broken down, destroying the halls and obliterating pillars and walls, raging against the stone that couldn’t fight back and which offered him no relief from his misery. His hollow hole yawned and stretched across the expanse of his stomach, so deep and empty he felt it would swallow him whole. There was no _purpose_ beyond what Aizen gave them, no reason to _fight_ and no fights to be had, and yet he was filled with a _need_ to destroy and shatter the things closest to him, to take and take and _take_ until the emptiness inside was satisfied.

The others didn’t understand and wouldn’t indulge his preferences. Even Ulquiorra, who looked at him until Grimmjow felt himself infected with the other’s isolation, who understood him better than the others, could not give him the thing he wanted. He couldn’t fight them, he couldn’t _kill_ them, he couldn’t rise above what he had become.

Was this the desolation Nnoitra felt in his waking existence? Was this why he _loathed_ and _raged_ harder than anyone Grimmjow had ever known? In those days he had tried—had sought Nnoitra out in the hopes that _he_, at least, would be able to relate to the hollow feeling that had only grown the stronger he had become, but his sibling was as elusive as he was aloof, leaving Grimmjow to once more wander in search of another outlet.

Now, in the present, he trailed his fingers along the arm of the throne, contemplating. No one was left. He couldn’t _feel_ them anymore. Either they were beyond the reach of his senses or they were dead, and Grimmjow was sure he didn’t care either way. All it meant was that he would be alone once more, the way he had started out.

Tentatively, Grimmjow lowered himself to the seat of the throne until he was fully seated. The hard stone offered him no relief—the crownless king sat upon his throne, and ruled over nothing.

There was _nothing_ left for him here.

_Tap, tap, tap. Taptap. Tap._

He drummed his fingers against the stone and considered his options.

There was no interest to be found in Hueco Mundo. It had been home to him for as long as he could remember, but he had never cared so much about sitting in a castle or ruling from a throne. He wasn’t like Aizen, and a gilded cage was _still_ a cage.

The living world appealed to him for more reasons than one, and though _the one_ was compelling enough on its own, Grimmjow found that his time there had elicited another feeling inside him, something that almost made him forget his unending appetite. Perhaps he would return. Of _course_ he would, that had already been decided. He’d _have_ to, if he ever wanted to make sure Kurosaki kept his fucking promise.

His wounds ached when he thought of his nemesis, like his skin _missed_ the kiss of Kurosaki’s blade. His head hurt too, with the weight of his thoughts and desires. How _deeply_ he wanted to bury his fangs, how _beautiful_ Kurosaki’s intestines would look when threaded between his claws like wet, silky ribbons. How sweetly would he scream, Grimmjow wondered as he passed an idle hand down the length of his body, tracing his first scar, the only one that really mattered.

But he didn’t want to _kill_ him, not so easily, at least. No, that would take all the fun out of it, and then he’d be left with nothing. No, Kurosaki was someone he’d have to toy with—to _savor_ him when he was at the height of his power and ability. Grimmjow drew his tongue against the inside of his teeth, imagining the hot slip of blood trickling between them and tainting the inside of his mouth crimson. Would he taste coppery and metallic, like everything else, or would his blood carry a different flavor?

Only one way to find out.

With a smirk, he pushed himself out of the throne, hopping down the steps and then turning around to give Aizen’s seat a calculating look. It was a symbol for something. It had _meant_ something to them, something more than the way Aizen gathered them together around a conference table and made them sit and endure one boring meeting after another. This _room_ meant something, made him into something untouchable and unknowable. His benevolence masked a darkness that Grimmjow could only ever sense within him, but one that he had tasted the time Tosen cut his arm from his body. The look in his eyes then, the expression on his face did not belong to the man who had told Grimmjow his eyes were blue and flicked the middle of his forehead when he had sputtered his first ‘fuck’ in retaliation.

Sneering, he raised his hand and curled his fingers toward his palm, concentrating energy into a ball at the center. The air shifted and the pressure changed as he fired his _cero_ at the throne, destroying it completely. Rubble and powdered marble rained down on him and he laughed wildly, cackling in that mad way of his as he realized that he had _always_ wanted to do that. Echoes of his laughter filled the halls, and he turned away, laughing until his chest hurt and tears poked at the corners of his eyes.

He laughed until he stumbled in his stride, veering into the wall and hammering a fist against the cold stone until it cracked. Hysterical with the _futility_ of trying to understand anything that had happened, with the realization that none of them had ever come _close_ to understanding what Aizen had been to them, or how they had fit into his plans beyond meat shields to be used against the Gotei 13. Did Halibel have a finer grasp on who he was? Had Barrigan seen past that perfect mask? Was Starrk has fooled as everyone else? Was there something he just _wasn’t_ seeing?

Grimmjow slid down to the floor and fisted his hands in his hair and rocked back and forth until his voice cracked and his laughter gave way to great, shuddering breaths that felt like he was trying to hold something back, deep inside of him. Like he was trying to grasp the pieces of himself and hold them together. He wasn’t breaking, _he wasn’t fuckin’ breaking_. This was nothing to him, _Aizen was nothing and they were nothing_. They had only ever been a means to an end. He was the fuckin’ _king_ and he had never needed _any_ of them.

The only thing that mattered—the _only_ thing that held a sliver of interest to him anymore existed outside of this dead realm. He had to leave—staying here where the only sound was that of his own voice and the thoughts running rampant in his head was going to drive him crazy. _He had to get the fuck out of there._

He had to go. He had to clear his mind, had to _fight_ away all this doubt and uncertainty and confusion. What good was this place to him when all it contained were the ghosts of everyone he had ever known? What use to him were his own demons?

He had to...he had to find Ichigo.

He had to _fight_.

He had to—to—he had to—

_Ichigo_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seasonal depression hit me really hard so I apologize for how long it took this chapter to come out in comparison to the others. I struggled a bit with it for a while but I'm happy with how it turned out and I mostly know how the next one is going to go! I wanted to say thank you to everyone for reading, and an especially BIG thanks to everyone who left a review! You're all so kind and it made me feel really awesome to read about how much you've been enjoying this silly little story, despite me having no direction, no beta, and no idea! Thank you so much for your patience and I hope everyone finds this chapter satisfactory! Thank you so, SO much for your interest!

Kurosaki’s shitty little town was still standing and looked no worse for wear. Hard to believe there had ever been a battle, actually. Not that Grimmjow cared about battles won or lost that weren’t _his_, not when he had been left to die like he had never meant anything to a single one of _them_. He didn’t care, it was as simple as that, and if he did manage to find somewhere in his heart to feel thankful, it was only because a destroyed town meant less of a chance to fight Kurosaki again.

It took him three days to hunt the kid down, three whole days that he only kept track of _this_ time because the nights were so much easier than the days. During the day there too many different scents, too many different people walking around and masking the _one_ scent that mattered. He had grown so frustrated that first day, had very nearly blown a hole in the streets below just to stop the fucking _noise_. Why were there so many _people?_

Grimmjow kept to the skies after that, tempering his impatience at having to actually _search_ with daydreams about what he was going to do once he actually _found_ his prey.

_Fuck_, what was the look on his face gonna be _this_ time?

Grimmjow idly scratched his stomach, his long fingers toying with the edge of his hollow hole as he drummed up an image of Kurosaki with that stupid frown on his face, and then imagined him with an even stupider look of surprise.

_Yeah_, that was a good look. His eyes all wide and his jaw falling all open and slack—but no words ever came out in his imaginings, not because he couldn’t think of things Ichigo might say in that moment, but because he much preferred the fucked-out speechlessness. It made his blood run like magma through his veins, made the cavernous maw inside of him gnash its teeth and lick its chops in satisfaction. That look _sustained_ him, and he hoped by surprising Kurosaki on his home turf he’d be able to draw that look out at _least_ once.

The second day passed without incidence. Grimmjow had followed a faint scent and aura to a nondescript neighborhood, where neat, tidy little houses all sat in neat, tidy little rows, uniform and perfect, the way Syazel would have liked them to be. Grimmjow looked at them and saw Aizen’s throne, and he would have destroyed them all except for Ichigo’s scent—it was _here_, somewhere, he could _feel_ it this time. He wasn’t wrong and this wasn’t a false lead; it was too strong, too familiar to be anyone other than the boy he was looking for.

So he waited again, impatient, his foot twitching like a cat’s tail as he lounged, invisible, just above the treeline. The sun set, heralding the darkness; the little houses remained alive, filled with people and their sounds and their strange and terrible smells, and Grimmjow watched, bored and lethargic, as the lights in the windows turned off one by one. If he had any sense of time beyond ‘day’ and ‘night’ he would have known that it was far too late to expect anything more, but still, he waited because there was nothing else to do.

That night he must have closed his eyes again, must have fallen into a light slumber—he didn’t need it, didn’t mean to, but his imagination found him there too and pulled him down from the sky and threw him into the asphalt where he bounced like a rock and rolled.

Grimmjow’s dream-self looked up, blood pouring down his face from a cut on his forehead and his eyes wild as he looked around for who the fuck had _dared_ attack him out of nowhere just like that. Was it...was it Kurosaki?

The sky blackened and turned everything dark. Laughter surrounded him, higher-pitched, garbled like he was listening to something through damaged ears. Static in his head, the sensation of being pulled underwater and his lungs filling with it, but there was nothing but the void encompassing him.

_Think you’re good enough for ‘im, ‘king’?_

Grimmjow whipped around, snarling, fingers curled and talon-tipped, ready to rend, but there was nothing—_no one_ there.

_Think you’re his **equal**? Like you can handle ‘im?_

“Shut th’ fuck up an’ fight if that’s what you want!” Grimmjow spat, tense in the shoulders and ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

_You don’t wanna fight **me**. Or...maybe you **do**. Maybe you just don’t realize it yet._

The ‘voice’, if it could be called that, reverberated at him from all sides _and_ from within. It was like being trapped in an echo chamber within his own head, and he felt his bones tremble and shake down to the marrow. Nothing felt worse than being taunted by an invisible enemy and denied his right to _fight_, not when he’s had his teeth bared for so long, ready and _willing_. It was Kurosaki’s fault, it was all _him_ that made Grimmjow like this, aching with a need so great and terrible it robbed him of what little common sense he possessed.

“Who are you?” he called out, the words falling from his mouth clumsily, tripping over teeth and tongue that felt too big for his jaw.

_Who am I? I **wonder**. Do you want him?_

“Th’ fuck,” Grimmjow whispered to himself, turning around in a tight circle as invisible fingers caressed the short hairs at the back of his neck. His skin stood on edge, ready to peel away from his muscle at a moment’s notice. The phantom tickle of a tail twitched against his ankle and he realized too late that he was naked, on all fours, and no longer possessing his human form. Grimmjow startled, opening his mouth wide as if to yell, but a low growl rumbled out of his throat instead, deep and full-bodied, more purr than roar.

It was instinct to stretch, instinct to arch his hind end in the air and stretch heavy paws out in front of him and extend cruel, curving claws against the void. A huge tongue, as rough as sand, licked at his chops, wetting his whiskers and velvety nose. He flicked his ears against his enormous, broad head and flicked his tail back and forth, back and forth—content, in that moment, to relish in what Aizen had stripped from him in their contract.

_This_ was how he was meant to be. _This _was how Ichigo should have seen him. His released form was beautiful, a work of art, deadliness carved into flesh, but _this_ was how Grimmjow saw himself in his mind’s eye. He had hunted the sands of Hueco Mundo for too long to ever forget the feel of coarse sand against the soft pads of his paws, or the way it had felt to crush his prey’s neck bones between his jaws and catch the remnants of their death rattles against his tongue. The taste of their blood had always been sweeter when the life was still leaking from their bodies.

_You’re too predictable. Like that other musclehead. You just want one thing._

Ah yes, there was a voice, wasn’t there? He had almost lost himself to nostalgia, which wasn’t like him. This was a dream, he knew, but it felt so disturbingly _real_. Grimmjow sat back on his haunches and curled his tail around his paws, watching with bright eyes as the void parted itself, folding back like a sheet of the blackest cloth. Two men appeared, one dressed in black, and the other in white. Behind them, behind the veil, stretched blue skies and white skyscrapers without end. Grimmjow stared, feeling lost, anchored in that moment by an unseen force.

The man in black looked at him with a solemn expression, his face worn and drawn, his arms hidden in the folds of his cloak. His long, dark hair whipped about his face and he said nothing.

The man in white...he was wrong. He was _all_ wrong. His face was like Kurosaki’s, like _Ichigo’s_, but not. His skin and hair were bleached white, his eyes filled with the void and irises golden and bright. The smile on his face bled ink between his teeth and Grimmjow caught glimpses of a black tongue as he opened his mouth—dead things had black tongues, swollen with rot and decay. This man looked like Ichigo, but wild and unrestrained, and when he turned those bright and dark eyes on Grimmjow, he felt his heart stop mid-beat and he choked.

_See?_ The bleached specter said, gesturing. _Not even worth it. What was he fuckin’ **thinkin’?**_

**There’s merit here,** the other man said, his voice so deep and warm that Grimmjow almost leaned in to the sound of it.

_Merit? You’re blind. He’s just like th’ other one. Not as strong though._

**No, but more of a kindred spirit.**

_Tch. You’re too soft on ‘im. He’s never gonna learn._

**He’s already come so far. This is what he needs. You don’t feel his soul reaching out?**

_I feel you coddlin’ ‘im. **Again**. _

**Let him be. This may yet prove interesting. His choice is all that matters, in the end. **

_For now._

Grimmjow couldn’t move. He couldn’t so much as unclench his jaws to speak, could barely _breathe_ with the force of their combined spiritual pressure bearing down on him. How could anyone be _that_ powerful? It took everything he had just to remain upright until they disappeared, slipping back behind the veil and abandoning him in the void. It was only then that air filled his lungs and he retched, in his human form once more, water spilling out of his mouth like he had drowned. He choked and wheezed, one hand on his throat and the other only barely holding himself up.

What _was_ that?!

_What the fuck **was** that?!_

Who were those men? Why had one of them looked so much like Ichigo, and yet not? Grimmjow looked up from where he knelt, his eyes flashing and murderous rage priming his heart as he searched for an opening past that black curtain. He would rip open their chests and pull their hearts out by the blood strings; he would scatter their guts across the sky and hold their throats in his teeth until they told him with their dying breaths what the _fuck_ it was, that he had just witnessed. _No one_ would ever treat him like that again—he was _no man’s_ pawn, he was no _plaything_ to be summoned and discarded as soon as he had outlived his usefulness. There was no more Aizen to tell him what to do, and he’d be _damned_ before another tried to take his place.

But his rage was wasted—there was nothing for him there, in the dreamworld of his own making, and the next time Grimmjow blinked and opened his eyes, he was back above the town, drifting aimlessly as the sun lowered itself into the horizon. Blood and gold painted the sky, streaks of purple married between the dark crush of crimson and black. The brighter stars twinkled against the canvas of impending night, and as the sun faded Grimmjow realized that another day had passed. The end of the third.

He threw his head back and roared his frustration to the heavens, the atmosphere around him trembling with the force of his repressed spiritual pressure. He couldn’t _take_ this. He was going crazy trying to be patient and wait, when all he wanted to do was sink his fangs into something _meaningful_. He had to remember—he had to remember why he was here. He needed Ichigo.

_Do you **want** him?_ The pale specter’s voice sounded against the back of his mind and Grimmjow thrust his hands into his hair, nails pulling against his scalp as he tried to shake the feeling that he was back there being taken apart by the cruel, knife-like edge of those eyes. He had _seen_ those eyes before, had almost lost himself to that keen glint half-hidden behind the smooth mask Kurosaki wore when he was fighting at his best. He didn’t know what it was he had been drawn into and he was content to forget about it...but for those _eyes_.

“Ffffu_uuuccck_,” he groaned, curling in on himself and scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

He didn’t want anything but for Ichigo to come out of hiding and fulfill his fucking promise. That was _all_ Grimmjow wanted. Just...he just wanted that _fight_.

This didn’t have to be so complicated—he shouldn’t have to work so hard to collect on a promise that _Ichigo_ made. He didn’t want to be patient, he didn’t want to waste time drifting and daydreaming, he didn’t want to have to _work_ this hard. He had already made Ichigo his prey, and yes, while the hunt was always made sweeter by the chase, Grimmjow felt he had already put in his time _chasing_. They had _established_ their rivalry. There was nothing left to do but _fight. _Was it so much to ask? Was he supposed to just endlessly suffer? How long had it been since the end of the war? He didn’t even know if...what if Ichigo was...what if too much time had passed and he was just—

Panic—ugly, black, liquid panic threatened to suffocate him before he could even finish that terrible thought. No, he wouldn’t _allow_ it. He wouldn’t let that happen. Ichigo thought he could get out of this so fucking easy? He thought there was some kind of loophole that would free him from his word? Not fucking likely. Grimmjow would track him down to the farthest reaches of hell before permitting him to weasel his way out of a promise between men.

But it wouldn’t come to that.

Before Grimmjow even had time to fully suppress his fleeting fear, he caught wind of it.

That _scent_.

He knew it because it was different from normal humans, sharper and dripping with spiritual pressure, which carried its own unique flavor. Ichigo was sweeter than all the others, because the blood that coursed through his veins ached to be tested. Grimmjow could smell the sweat drying on the back of his neck and damp baby-fine hair pressed flat against his skin. He could smell the musk of his underarms and the way his breath would taste as he bit into his mouth and tore his tongue free from his jaw.

Saliva filled his mouth and the backs of his teeth ached, suddenly, as he twisted around, following that powerful scent until he spotted his prey.

He took back _everything_ he had just thought—the chase was _excellent_, it was _everything_ to him and the fight would be nothing, it would be as dead and barren as Hueco Mundo if he didn’t have this. What good was pain if not preceded by pleasure? What good did it do to achieve his goals if he hadn’t suffered for them in some small way? Ichigo had made him wait _three fucking days_ for this chance, and he was going to make him feel every fucking minute—every damned _second_ he was going to carve straight into his bones with teeth and claw until Ichigo understood what a crime it was to make Grimmjow _wait_.

He threw his head back and laughed, triumphant with what he perceived as a victory already won.

“_**ICHIGO!**_” he yelled as he hurtled through the sky, aiming right for his prey’s back. A split second was all it took, just the barest turn of Ichigo’s head in acknowledgment, the sight of those honey-colored eyes as he looked up, widening in shock, his lips parted and mouthing Grimmjow’s name in incredulity. In that moment, with Ichigo’s eyes shocked and turning hard like steel, his spiritual pressure warping him from boring human to something decidedly _not_, his pupils changing and the thin line of his mouth drawing taut—yeah.

_Yeah_, there was that fuckin’ _look_.

_That’s_ what he wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone! A great big thank you to everyone who reviewed, as always you guys are AWESOME! This chapter is a little longer than my other ones, partially to make up for taking so long and also because I'm REALLY bad at fight scenes in general and I couldn't find a good place to end it properly. BUT, that being said, I enjoyed writing this chapter and I really hope you all enjoy reading it! I feel a little better from the last few weeks but I'm still in a bit of a slump. Honestly, writing this fic has been good for me though and I really enjoy working on it! I'm excited for upcoming chapters and I'm really excited to see what you all have to say about this one! My tags have changed a little bit as a result of this chapter, so make sure you re-check on those, and as a warning to those who may be diehard fans of canon--from now on this fic is basically canon-divergence in its truest form, and I'm basically throwing out everything that happens after Aizen's arc. Have fun reading, and please leave a review telling me what you think!

Grimmjow struck with all the force of a meteor, his fist passing through the asphalt and imploding the ground so deep he hit pipes—a water main burst, a geyser erupting into the air and simulating rainfall, but he didn’t notice. Kurosaki had dodged at the last second, so close Grimmjow could have _sworn_ he felt the barest whisper of skin across his knuckles. He rounded, eager and hungry for it, for whatever Ichigo could offer him—he was here to _collect_.

“_Ichigo_, you worthless piece of _shit_,” he raged, still not over how it had taken him three days to come to this. Fucking kid, making him _wait_, hiding out like a fucking coward, like he had _forgotten_ what this was about, what _they_ were about.

He had _promised_.

But Grimmjow couldn’t stay mad, not when there was the familiar flutter of those black robes, that ridiculously _huge_ sword grasped tightly in Ichigo’s hands, and an expression on his face that Grimmjow had only been capable of imagining.

_Yeah_, his eyes were hard, glinting more gold than brown, furrow between his brows and his mouth drawn in a grimace with just the barest hint of teeth. If he waited long enough, would Ichigo’s eyes strip the flesh from his bones? Would he attack on his own or was his aim merely to defend himself? Grimmjow curled his fingers toward his palm, imagining every possibility ahead of him. So many choices, so little time...or all the time in the world, if he were smart.

He laughed aloud and sprung again, his talons aimed for the soft, supple flesh of Ichigo’s neck and the sharp triangle of skin visible from the neck down, where his _kosode_ didn’t quite cover his chest.

“_Wait—_” he heard Ichigo try to say, but now wasn’t the time for words and Grimmjow refused to allow him even an _inch_ of leeway. If he got to talking, what would happen? Nothing good—he’d find a way to stop their fight, find a way to weasel out of it. He’d make another promise, and another, and he’d lie, and he’d run away like a fucking _pussy _because that’s all he was, right? Just a no-good, lying _bastard_ who thought he could just _say things_ that weren’t true and then go about his life like he wouldn’t have to pay the reaper when his time of reckoning was at hand.

“_**FUCK YOU!**_” Grimmjow roared, drowning out whatever words he had planned on saying next. His talons caught the broadside of Ichigo’s blade, sparks flying as Ichigo twisted to deflect the blow and throw Grimmjow over his shoulder. It worked—Grimmjow went sailing but managed to flip his body at the last moment so that his boots hit the wall of a house across the street, the impact cracking the cement and creating a sizable hole. Grimmjow grinned and pushed off, worsening the damage. He didn’t care.

He didn’t care about _anything_ so long as Ichigo was there, giving him what he wanted.

“Come _on!_” he yelled, a small Cero glowing hot against his palm. He watched as Ichigo’s eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed with anger. He jumped, higher than Grimmjow, until he was just a black little blob against the shadowed sky. Distantly, Grimmjow knew this was his way of trying to take the fight away from the streets, away from where homes could be damaged and people could be hurt, and to that he wondered ‘who the fuck _cares?_’. Collateral damage was the price one paid for a good time. If people got hurt, then oh-fuckin’-well. Maybe they should have gotten smart and gotten out of the way. If humans were so weak they couldn’t protect themselves, then he sure as hell wasn’t going to feel guilty about it!

But he followed after Ichigo because there was no other choice. His body cried out for it, his heart beating and his blood _singing_. He loved this—he _loved_ it, the feeling of finally feeling like he wasn’t some dried-out husk kicking it across Hueco Mundo just waiting to fade away into nothingness. This made him feel _alive_.

_Ichigo_ made him feel this way.

They met in the sky, the flash of sparks lighting the dark space between them as his talons met again and again with Ichigo’s blade, scoring the metal with shallow grooves. Ichigo parried every blow, dodged every swipe, his lean body twisting and turning with ease and grace he hadn’t exhibited before Hueco Mundo. He had grown _so much_, had become so much stronger than the little shit-head, snot-nosed punk Grimmjow had first pounded into the ground all those months ago. He was strong, but….

Grimmjow fired off a wild shot, not even a fully-powered Cero, his hand aimlessly pointing to one of the houses down below—it struck something important; Grimmjow’s ears picked up a small explosion and what sounded like an alarm of some kind. He laughed, ducking and rolled through the air as Ichigo swung at him, and bounced back a few steps.

“_Cut it out!_” Ichigo yelled, his voice frantic. “There’s _people_ down there, _innocent_ people who didn’t do anything to _you!_ This is between _us!_”

“Yeah,” Grimmjow scoffed, “an’ look how fuckin’ hard I had t’ work t’ get you out here. You think you’re suddenly too good to keep your word or somethin’?”

“Wha--?” Ichigo sputtered, his face flushing _beautifully_. Grimmjow licked his lips. If he attacked now and tore Ichigo’s face open, would all the blood in his body fall out? His skin was as red as his hair. Grimmjow had opened him up before, had let his blood out against his skin and the color of it burned against the back of his brain, a throbbing reminder that Ichigo could be hurt, could be made to bleed and break and _die_ gasping against bits of broken bone and severed muscle.

Something inside Grimmjow throbbed, that same bit that came to life whenever he thought of Ichigo in that way. It was almost painful, the thing inside him, almost as painful as his hollow hole and the never-ending hunger that was all he had ever known from the first days of his birth. He made a noise like a snarl mixed with a whine and leapt at Ichigo again, talons catching on the blunt edge of the sword he tried to use as a shield.

"You _promised!_" Grimmjow spat, his nose wrinkled and lips pulled back to reveal the gleaming sharp of his canines. "You fuckin' _promised!_"

"The world doesn't revolve around _you!_" Ichigo said, grunting as he fought against the sudden added weight of Grimmjow clinging to his sword. "I had other things to take care of! I didn't _forget!_"

"_**BULLSHIT!**_"

Grimmjow kicked off, the force of it sending Ichigo tumbling through the air. When he came to a stop and righted himself, Grimmjow was prepared, his fist aimed right at his rival's face. This time there was no dodging, no chance for him to get away, no room to escape. He was fast, yeah, but he was holding back for some reason. Grimmjow punched him, the sweet sensation of flesh and hard bone grinding against his knuckles like a salve to his wounded ego.

Blood spurted from Ichigo's nose, dripping over his mouth and down his chin, painting the hot column of his throat until the black _kosode_ soaked it up. Grimmjow's mouth instantly watered and his gums did that thing they did, that terrible itching that reached deep into the roots of his teeth and the bone of his jaw, anchored down in the marrow.

"You look so fuckin' _good_ like that," he breathed raggedly as he shook his hand out. "This is all I've been thinkin' about."

"You're _obsessed_," Ichigo spat, like it was an insult.

"You're not?" Grimmjow laughed, dropping into a crouch. He bared every last one of his teeth in a wild grin, then dropped like a stone, plummeting back toward the ground. He could barely hear Ichigo's panicked response but he felt him moving to follow, his spiritual pressure spiking enough to make Grimmjow's pulse race in anticipation. He put on another burst of speed and summoned two more small Ceros, one in each hand and as he flew through the air he twisted around, living dangerously just for the opportunity to watch Ichigo’s face as he sneered, throwing those tight little balls of high powered energy out to either side.

They exploded on impact, one taking out the whole side of a house and the other snapping a utility pole in two; high voltage wires twisted and snapped with the force of the pole careening toward the ground, each one whipping its way down to the street where they lay like deadly but innocuous snakes. People opened their windows and cracked their doors, wandering out to the short gates surrounding their tiny front lawns to see what all the commotion was about, like the _stupid_ fucking lemmings they were.

This was what Kurosaki was trying to protect? These meatbags with no sense of self-preservation until the danger was so close that running was of no use? _This_ is what he had almost thrown away his life for? _This_ was more important than the promise he had made?

Grimmjow snarled and threw another Cero ball toward the ground, this one deflected at the last minute by Ichigo’s quick thinking as he dived right into its path and batted the thing away with his sword. It ignited anyway, but the damage was minimal, just scorched asphalt and blackened sidewalks.

“_**STOP IT!**_” Ichigo yelled, looking up to where Grimmjow now hovered in the air above him.

“_**WHY SHOULD I?!**_” Grimmjow roared back, the air around him compressing with the force of his rage and his responding release of spiritual pressure. “Why do _you_ get t’ be th’ one t’ make all th’ rules?! You _lied_ t’ me! You _said _I could fight you—wherever an’ _whenever_ I wanted! _That’s_ what I’m fuckin’ doin’!”

“Not like _this_,” Ichigo shouted back, throwing his arm out and gesturing toward the destruction Grimmjow had caused. “Not where others can get _hurt_, you _jackass!_ It’s just us, just you an’ me! No one else has to be involved in this!”

“Then you shoulda made that _clear _before you hid away like a fuckin’ _rat!_”

“I didn’t _hide_, you _moron_, I was just--”

Grimmjow was tired of the lies. He was tired of being told he was _wrong_, that he was _mistaken_, that he had failed to comprehend all the nuances attached to a promise that should have been nothing if not straightforward. He looked at Ichigo and he saw Ulquiorra, standing in that bleak hall with his arms ramrod straight by his sides and that dour expression on his face, telling him that he was getting in the way, that he was making a nuisance of himself. He saw Nnoitra, staring down at him as he coughed up blood, a smug smile on his face as he called him weak and useless. He saw Aizen, staring silently from his throne, saying nothing and refusing to intervene as Tosen cut his arm off for some imagined slight.

What did Ichigo see when he looked at him?

Did he see a failure, someone who didn’t deserve his time because he had already been beaten once, had already died out on the sands, murdered by his own sibling? Did he see someone too pathetic to even pity properly? Was that what this was all about? Why hadn’t he transformed yet? Why was he holding back, trapping all that power in a form that stood as little more than an _insult_ after all they had been through together? Did he not think Grimmjow _worth_ the effort?

_You’re not gonna fuckin’ cast __**me**_ _aside_, Grimmjow thought to himself, and like a bullet fired from a gun he was off, slamming into Ichigo before the kid had any time to fucking _react_ because he was so fucking concerned with everyone who _wasn’t_ him, and he _deserved_ this, he deserved the way he fucking bounced across the ground, the both of them rolling as Grimmjow sunk his talons into Ichigo’s shoulders and somersaulted, flinging him as far and as hard as he could, ‘til th asphalt scraped his skin off in patches and he felt his own blood dripping down his back.

They landed close to where the fight had started, rolling into the shallow crater from Grimmjow’s first attack, and it was _almost_ poetic, the way this so closely mirrored that time before Hueco Mundo, where he had crouched over Ichigo and scented his fear and licked his cheek, promising him pain and death and all the sweet moments in between.

Grimmjow grabbed the front of Ichigo’s blood-soaked _kosode_ and lifted his shoulders off the ground before slamming him back down as hard as he could, watching his rival’s head bounce and his stupid mouth fall open in a wince. He lifted and slammed him again, and again, and _again_, until the ground fractured even further beneath them. Water from the burst pipe rained down on their heads and pooled beneath them, carrying dirt and sludge and drenching their clothes as they struggled, Grimmjow fighting to remain on top and Ichigo wriggling to get out from underneath.

“Get _off!_” Ichigo panted, sounding so weak and pathetic that it made Grimmjow want to beat his face in until he was unrecognizable.

“Fuckin’ _pussy_,” he snarled under his breath, hands fighting against Ichigo’s as he sought purchase in his skin. “Fuckin’ _coward—_you _scared_ of me? You scared I’m gonna _kill_ you for this? I _told_ you I’m gonna rip your heart out an’ _eat it!_”

Ichigo’s legs kicked out as he tried to twist out from beneath Grimmjow’s larger frame, but the water made it difficult. It sloshed and lapped at Grimmjow’s thighs and ass, splashing the small of his back and creeping up into his hollow hole; he shivered at the cold contact but his focus was Ichigo and the way he struggled, so ugly, nothing like the way it was before. He slapped Ichigo’s hands aside with ease, a snarl taking his lip as he punched him again, watching the way his eyes went stupid for a moment, like he was seeing stars. Fresh blood drooled out of his nose and from a split in his lower lip, shiny crimson and potent against his pale skin, making Grimmjow’s heart beat faster and saliva collect between his teeth and gums.

He felt Ichigo’s hand against his collar and the other against his face, ineffective fingers curling against the slick bone affixed to his cheek as he pushed back, trying to keep Grimmjow from leaning in. He put all of his weight into it, until he felt Ichigo’s shoulders start to shake with the effort of holding him back; his mouth opened of its own volition, his tongue rolling against his teeth and the inside of his cheek. He could practically _taste_ him like this, blood thick and heavy and sweet in the air between them, the scent making him dizzy and sending him higher. He rocked into Ichigo, his hands fisted into the damp cloth of his _shinigami_ robes and sponging blood off against his palms.

_Just one taste_, he thought to himself, because this time, surely, he _deserved_ it. He had waited _so_ long….

“_Stop it_,” Ichigo whispered, his spiritual pressure going haywire around them both, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to control it or let loose. Grimmjow knew which _he_ would prefer, but the stench of fear and something else rolling off of Ichigo in that moment took precedence over all else. He could scarcely summon the capacity to _think_ for himself as he tried to push past Ichigo’s nebulous hold, which felt more and more like he didn’t really _mean it_ the way he should have.

Just like fighting. Just like his fucking ‘promise’. Just like everything else in Grimmjow’s life, just another goddamned _lie_.

“_Make me_,” Grimmjow whispered back, his voice grating and hoarse, even to his own ears. He opened his mouth so wide the bone on his cheek separated, teeth grinding against one another as they pulled free. Ichigo’s fingers slipped and caught between them and he _felt—_he _felt_ the sharp points catch on his skin, felt it tear open, felt precious blood spilling against bone and cheek. Grimmjow’s eyes widened and his pupils contracted to near pinpoints. The hunger beckoned him, reached up from that void within him, the hollow point that could never be filled, that had swallowed everything that he was until no memories of his former life remained; that piece of him he had raged against for so long and so hard, feeding it with corpse after corpse after rancid, stinking corpse and it was never enough, _would never_ be enough.

It wanted now, it ached and pulsed and breathed its directive into his blood until Grimmjow thought he’d _die_ from resisting.

_Tear out his throat_, it said.

_Not yet,_ Grimmjow responded, placing a hand on Ichigo’s neck. _Please, fuck...not yet_.

“_G-Grimmjow_,” Ichigo gasped, his eyes widening as Grimmjow placed his other and atop the first, and slowly began to press down.

"You _lied_," he seethed, sitting up and leaning his weight into it. Ichigo's blunt nails attacked his wrists as he tried to throw Grimmjow off, gasping and bucking beneath him with renewed vigor, sensing, perhaps, that some part of their play was very _deadly_ serious.

"You fuckin' _left me_ out there t' fuckin' _rot_," Grimmjow snarled, his words tearing a jagged hole in his chest as the feeling he hadn't been able to name before now—_hurt—_welled up inside of him.

"You _promised_ me we'd fight again an' then you _left_ an' I was _alone_," he hissed, throttling Ichigo the smallest amount. "You _lied!_"

"_No!_" Ichigo ground out, "I _swear_, I didn't!"

"_Then how come you're holdin' back?_" Grimmjow asked, letting up on his choke-hold to lean in, his lips practically ghosting against Ichigo's soft, bloody cheek, right by his ear so he could whisper without letting it show on his face how much it fucked with him.

Ichigo gasped, gulping down great lungfuls of fresh air, his hands loosely circled around Grimmjow's wrists.

"I didn't—I'm _not_—"

"_Liar_," Grimmjow snarled, shaking with rage. "Fuckin' _liar_. _Coward_. You didn't plan on keepin' your promise. You just said that 'cause you didn't want _my_ death on your conscience. What made me better than th' rest of 'em, huh? Why not just _let me die?_"

He hadn't wanted to die. Whether or not Ichigo had been there was inconsequential at best. Grimmjow didn't crave death the way Nnoitra did. He didn't want to see what happened when his heart ceased its beating for the final time. He didn't wanna go to hell, where Halibel said he would since he was so wicked and destructive. He would have fought and clawed his way across that desert, tooth and nail even if he had managed to beat Ichigo, even if Nnoitra hadn't tried to decapitate him.

But why did _Ichigo _care? If he wasn't going to fight at his best, then why even bother sparing his life?

The others were dead.

He couldn't _feel_ them the way he had when they were created. Each one of them had lingered at the back of his conscious mind, like an annoying, incessant insect. He might not have known where they were or what they were doing, he hadn't been fucking _psychic_, but it was a sense of presence and the understanding that they were simply _there_. In a way he was reluctant to admit, that reassurance had been comforting, especially during those times when he felt alone, separate from his _Fracción _and exhausted from himself.

Now, he didn't even have that reassurance.

"_Fuck_ you," Grimmjow said, spitting against Ichigo's cheek. He surged to his feet and looked at the house before him. It looked like all the others, maybe a little bigger. This was where Ichigo lived; it had his scent all over it, the lingering essence of his unique spiritual pressure oozing from the walls.

Ichigo had taken _everything _from him.

He had stolen his security.

He had disrupted the natural order of his life.

He had _lied_.

Aizen was _gone_. His siblings were dead. Returning to Hueco Mundo would send him spiraling into madness.

His _zanpakuto_ was shattered. His body was scarred. He was tired and angry of being pushed to the side like he didn't matter, like the things _he_ wanted didn't matter.

Ichigo had taken everything from him? Fine. He'd just return the favor.

“_Wait,_” Ichigo gasped, rolling onto his side as Grimmjow stalked off. “Wai—what’re you...what’re you doing?”

He didn’t bother to answer. Grimmjow glared at the house and raised his hand, focusing all of his remaining energy into a powerful Gran Rey Cero. How many houses would he have to destroy before Ichigo took him seriously? How many people did he have to kill before this wasn’t a fucking _game_ anymore? All he had wanted—all he had _asked_ for was to be treated like a fucking equal, for Ichigo to come at him with everything he had and fight him like he _meant_ it. Why was that so hard to do? He didn’t like the way his chest hurt with the thought of being brushed aside so easily. He didn’t like feeling _hurt_ about anything, like he wasn’t good enough to rise above petty emotions and triggers. He wasn’t some weak _human_.

“_Grimmjow!_” Ichigo yelled, but the pressure from Grimmjow’s massive Gran Rey revolving against his palm created a vacuum that drowned out all other sounds.

“_GRIMMJOW! WAIT! DON’T!_”

_You don’t get t’ treat me like I don’t mean nothin’,_ he thought bitterly. _**You**__, of all people, don’t get t’ do this._

His fingers twitched, the barest sign that he was preparing to release his attack. This was the right choice, _this_ was what he had to do to get what he wanted and nothing else mattered, because without that promise, without Ichigo there to back it up and give Grimmjow what he _needed_...what was even the _point_ to anything? He didn’t want to die...but what good was _living_ if he could never have the _one thing_ he wanted more than anything else in the entire world?

_Do you want him, ‘king’?_

Grimmjow flexed his hand and _released_.

“_**BAN-KAI!!**_”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I won't lie, these past few months really kicked my ass. Work is work, holidays are approaching so I won't make promises about the future chapters lol. I was really hoping to get this one out sooner but it gave me some trouble and stuff. Here it is though! I'm not sure whether or not I like it, so I'll let you guys decide whether or not it turned out any good. My sincerest apologies for the wait too, I had really hoped to be out of my funk but it came back with a vengeance and just laid me out! I hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving for those who celebrate, or just a nice November in general! Please let me know what you think about this chapter, and again, so sorry for taking so long to get it out! Thanks for your continued support of this humble little fic!

Grimmjow couldn’t _breathe_.

He was drowning, lungs filling with water and blood ‘til they were fat and full to bursting. He couldn’t breathe, swept up in the flood storms of Ichigo’s fully released spiritual pressure and barely able to keep his head afloat as he fought against the overwhelming surge. He opened his mouth—to yell, to scream, to rage, to curse, but the sounds were stolen from the tip of his tongue. His Cero was ripped from the end of his hand, swallowed by something more powerful. He couldn’t fucking _breathe_.

Dimly, he registered pain in his back, a pounding in his head and a throbbing in his hand. Water rained down against his face and a weight settled on his hips, oppressive and solid. He was drenched down to the bone, shivering as his clothes soaked up the dirty ditch water he lay in and seeped past the surface of his skin.

“Fucking….you’re _unbelievable_.”

He groaned and tried to roll over, but the weight on his hips wouldn’t let him. Something sharp and cold touched the inside rim of his hollow hole and he flinched away from it, hissing as a very specific brand of pain lit up his spine.

What happened?

He didn’t wanna open his eyes—his head hurt too much to even try, the back of his skull felt impacted, like shards of it were trying to explode out of his forehead. But if he didn’t, he’d never know.

“Wake up, dumbass, I know you’re not unconscious. C’mon...you’re better than _that_.”

He didn’t wanna...but that was Ichigo’s voice, wasn’t it? That was Ichigo, calling him names and taunting him. That was Ichigo’s weight on his hips, pinning him to the ground. That was _Ichigo’s_ warmth beating back the piercing cold of the water, and it was Ichigo’s hand, he now realized, crushing his against the ground—_that_ was where the pain was coming from.

“_Ugh_,” he managed, cracking open his eyes a sliver.

Ugly fluorescent light from a pole illuminated Ichigo from behind, blurring the feathery, wispy edges of his hair into a halo that spread from his shoulders and encapsulated his entire head. Grimmjow squinted, barely able to make out the details of his face...except for his eyes.

They were golden, piercing like daggers, his pupils like sharp pinpricks of flint. Grimmjow opened his mouth but had no words. The tongue that was usually so quick to spit poison and vitriol sat dry on the edge of his teeth, dead and lifeless as he looked up into the face of the one person who mattered more than anyone else ever had and wondered how he had ended up on his back, in a crater of his own making, his bones weary and the hollow point of his missing soul aching to be filled with more than this sense of...regret.

Grimmjow didn’t _regret_ things. He didn’t look back, either.

“Get _offa _me,” he groaned, trying to reach for Ichigo, to throw him off. His hand didn’t move though, trapped under the unrelenting hold of this _boy_...who no longer bore the resemblance of that pathetic, weak little human Grimmjow had first beaten into the ground. He could no longer deny that Ichigo had transformed himself into something..._more_.

“_No_,” Ichigo hissed, his grip on Grimmjow’s hand tightening. “I’m _sick_ of this. You won’t _listen_ to me and I can’t trust you to let you go.”

“So you’re gonna sit here forever?” Grimmjow asked, barking out a sharp laugh as he kicked his leg out for leverage and bucked his hips, trying to dislodge Ichigo from his seat.

“No, just until I get what I want.”

Grimmjow sneered, the edge of his lip curling up to reveal his unnaturally sharp canines. His other arm was twisted, trapped behind his back. His shoulder felt...out of place, but the bone wasn’t broken. Not yet at least. Ichigo was a solid weight across his hips, and when he craned his neck, he saw that his fucking sword was speared right through the center of his hollow hole, the sharp of the blade millimeters away from the black edge of his stomach. He wasn’t just pinned...he was _trapped_.

“An’ what d’ya _want?_” Grimmjow asked, squirming in place as best he could without disturbing Ichigo’s _zanpakuto_. “Wanna _kill_ me? Wanna cut my fuckin’ heart out? Wanna run me through or somethin’? C'mon, ya got me against a wall here, Kurosaki—don’t tell me you’re gonna puss out _now_.”

“You talk too much,” Ichigo said quietly, still staring down at Grimmjow with those eerie, unblinking eyes. “Why can’t you ever be quiet...for once in your life?”

Why should he? He had a mouth on him, he knew it. _Everyone_ knew it, and everyone was so quick to tell him the same thing: he talked too much, he cursed and spat and was rude. He was too loud, too angry, too brash, and he always opened his mouth without thinking things through. He was uncouth, uncultured, undisciplined—how Aizen didn’t see fit to punish him more often was a mystery.

And Aizen himself? Always atop his fucking throne, disappointment in his eyes whenever Grimmjow spouted off, like he had made a mistake somewhere and it was too late to correct it. Like Grimmjow was some kind of failure or something. An experiment gone wrong.

“_Fuck you_,” Grimmjow snarled. “I say what I want!”

“And you don’t _listen_. I’m trying to _talk_ to you, now.”

He didn’t wanna talk. He didn’t wanna listen. It made him uncomfortable, this position of vulnerability he was in, but nothing felt more daunting, nothing made his skin crawl so much as laying there and being forced to just...to _talk_, like words were more important than fighting. Why couldn’t they just let their fists do the talking for them? Why was he always expected to act out of his element? Why did everyone always try to cut him up and shape him into something unnatural, to fit into a perfect little box where he didn’t belong? Aizen had done that once before, had stolen his form from him, given him human skin and clothes, a sword, and expected him to just...fit into some kind of mold that everyone else had no problem filling out.

But that wasn’t _him_, that wasn’t who he was and he couldn’t help that he was made to be so...so….

“I came here t’ _fight_,” he said, baring his fangs. “Talkin’ is a waste of time an’ energy I could use t’ put you in th’ fuckin’ ground. Lemme up, an’ we’ll ‘talk’. I’ll ‘talk’ all night if that’s what you fuckin’ want, pussy-ass motherfucker!”

Ichigo’s hand left his, fingers suddenly digging into his scalp and gripping his hair in bunches. He yanked as hard as he could, forcing Grimmjow’s head back, baring his throat to the night air. His heart thudded against his rib-cage, a hiss escaping his lips as he arched his back in compliance, trying to take the pressure off of his neck. It _hurt_, but not so much that he was gonna sit there and beg Ichigo to let up. If anything, this was the sort of backbone he had been looking for.

“You’re out of control,” Ichigo said, his gold-ringed eyes flashing. “Killing innocent people and damaging their homes? You can’t do that. Keep it up, and you’ll have more than just _me_ to deal with.”

“Your bullshit Soul Society?” Grimmjow choked out. “Bring it. I’ll fight _them_, since you won’t put out."

"You wouldn't last more than a few minutes against the best of them. You're good...but you're not _that_ good."

That stung. Grimmjow growled, opening his mouth wide and gnashing his teeth against the air. Ichigo's arm was _right there_, faint scars in the outline of Grimmjow's bite silvery against his pale skin. He'd put another set right there between the memory of the first, draw Ichigo's blood from his veins and pin _him_ to the ground, watch _him _bleed and pull _his _hair. See how _he _liked it. But this wasn't unfamiliar. Grimmjow thought back to the time before Hueco Mundo, before their penultimate battle, when he had met Ichigo in this same sky, above these same streets, following the same scent with the same dogged persistence until they had wound up in a similar crater...only then Grimmjow had been the one holding all the cards.

He remembered lowering his head to scent Ichigo's neck, pressing his teeth to his flesh, licking him like something to be savored later and his promise to strew his intestines down the road. None of that had come to pass, and yet his jaws ached with remembrance for how it felt to hold Ichigo's jugular between his fangs for that brief moment, and the way his prey's breath had hitched and his eyes had blown wide. There had been _fear_...and _anticipation_.

Now there was nothing.

Just those eyes bearing down on him, staring _through_ him. Blood still wept from Ichigo’s nose—Grimmjow watched the trail it made, trickling down to his lip and chin. It collected in a dark drip and fell to a point outside his range of vision, but he dragged his tongue against the inside of his teeth all the same.

"I'm not _weak_," he said in a hushed voice.

Ichigo looked at him and the hardness in his eyes lessened, just a fraction.

"I never said you were. If I let go, you promise to stay down?"

Grimmjow flexed his fingers against the back of Ichigo's hand and nodded. With the sword through his stomach, where was he gonna go?

Slowly, Ichigo withdrew his crushing grip, sitting up straight and resting his hands on his thighs. Obediently, Grimmjow laid there beneath him curling his fingers and rolling his wrist to make sure nothing was broken. There might've been a bruise or two, but nothing he really had to worry about.

He waited until Ichigo lowered his guard, until a look of relief passed over his stupid face, until he felt the rest of Ichigo’s weight settle on his hips.

Swinging from the ground didn’t carry near as much the same force. His body twisted and he felt the sword cut into him, the pain immeasurable for the brief second it took until his fist made contact with the side of Ichigo’s face in an admittedly weak punch. The look of surprise on his face though? Yeah, that was fuckin’ nice, the way his eyes widened in that stupid, fish-out-of-water look. Fresh blood spurted from his nose, and the wet, heavy sound of damp flesh colliding drowned out the painful thump of his heart. Grimmjow fell back, gasping at the pain in his stomach, and let out a frustrated noise.

Ichigo’s hands gripped his torn and frayed jacket by the lapels, shaking him, jerking his back up off the ground and slamming him back down. Grimmjow choked out a laugh before hands were pressed against his throat, tight against his windpipe, silencing him from further antagonizing. Ichigo’s weight leaned around his sword, almost frantic, desperate to shut Grimmjow up in the way he scrabbled for control, hooking his ankles over Grimmjow’s thighs to keep him from picking himself off the ground, and his eyes were back to that same molten look of anger and frustration.

Eyes like lava, like fire, like hell and brimstone. Eyes that scorched his flesh and stripped the muscle from his bone and pooled liquid heat into the center of his hollow hole and filled it like nothing else did, made him feel both _more_ and _less_ with every unblinking second that passed by.

Grimmjow squirmed and gasped against the pressure against his neck, trying to shrink away so he could fucking _breathe_, but Ichigo was relentless, his spiritual pressure an additional weight bearing down on him like shackles and chains, nailing him to the ground so he couldn’t so much as twitch. He fought to maintain a hold, painfully wrenching his other arm from beneath him and rolling it against the ground until he felt his shoulder pop back into place. His hands felt clammy and weak as he gripped Ichigo’s wrists, unable to exert enough force to make Ichigo _let go_.

He couldn’t _breathe_.

“F-Fuck…,” he gasped, scrunching his eyes shut as he futilely pushed. Ichigo didn’t so much as budge, his grip tightened, and Grimmjow felt something else hit his gut, something heavy like lead that sank through the pool of warmth until it settled against the inside of his spine. A tingling sensation swept up his legs and the muscles in his thighs twitched.

“Is this what you want?” Ichigo asked, leaning in close. He was close, so fucking close, Grimmjow stared back through heavily lidded eyes, feeling warm and heavy and incredibly, _incredibly_ heated, like they were in the midst of a fight to the death. Ichigo’s eyes were brown, flecked with gold, bright like amber and brimming with fire. Grimmjow felt his skin melt and he opened his mouth in a gasp, fangs glinting with spit as he tried to arch his back. Ichigo’s gaze was like a knife, a fucking scalpel.

Like a blade, and Grimmjow wanted to be _cut_.

“_Yes_,” he wheezed, his boots sloshing through water as he sought purchase. Ichigo’s weight was warm on his hips. His hips. He couldn’t move them, couldn’t feel anything other than the warmth, the weight, Ichigo’s knees clamped against his sides and the blade biting into his stomach, black blood dribbling from the black hole in his stomach.

“_**Fuck**__ yes._”

Ichigo leaned in, so close Grimmjow could pick out the tiny pores of his skin, sweat clinging to the edges of his temple, dirt smudged across his brow. Blood still ran down his mouth, a large droplet collected at the tip of his nose like a fat, succulent ruby, rich and dark. Ichigo shifted and the droplet fell, striking against Grimmjow’s lower lip—faster than he could think about it, _before_ he could think, Grimmjow’s tongue darted out and lapped it up. A shuddery breath left him, and his hold on Ichigo’s wrists loosened. The coppery taste blossomed across his palate, just as he had fantasized about—sweet in a way only the taste of blood was to him, sweet like he _knew_ Ichigo would be. He groaned, fangs sinking into his lip as he closed his eyes, reveling in the warmth that flooded his body.

“Jesus Christ, _Grimm_….”

Ichigo shifted again, and Grimmjow felt his ass rock back into his hard cock—didn’t even know he had gotten hard, didn’t even realize that it was arousal knocking against his spine until it was too late. Ichigo was gonna feel, he was gonna get up and leave because it was _weird_, it was _crazy_, and because they were—this was supposed to be a _fight_, not some fucked up virgin fantasy come to life

But he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t keep his body from reacting the way that it did because this was _exactly_ what he had wanted, _exactly_ what he had hoped would one day come to pass, Ichigo sitting on top of him with his hands wrapped around his throat and squeezing the life out of him with no mercy. It was the fight, always about the fight and the way they matched each other blow for blow, their strength nearly equal...or that’s what Grimmjow had told himself up until this point, that things were still very much the same between them, that Ichigo had finally caught up to him and now they could play on a level field.

He hadn’t stopped to consider that Ichigo hadn’t just ‘caught up’...he had _surpassed_ him, somehow, in some way.

Grimmjow felt his eyes flutter, felt his thoughts turn to mush as the pressure on his throat didn’t let up. He couldn’t breathe but that was okay. He accepted that. Ichigo had the upper hand and the only way out of this situation involved him tearing through his own gut with a sword stabbed into the ground. Grimmjow swallowed thickly, straining, and let out a choked noise. He opened his eyes and Ichigo...Ichigo looked at him, but it was different this time.

_More?_ Yeah, it was more. He didn’t know how to quantify it, just knew that this look was a different look than all the others. It didn’t cut, didn’t make him feel pitied, didn’t feel like disappointment or anything like that. It just..._was_.

And Ichigo was so close, so _fucking_ close he could smell the blood on his nose and mouth, maybe he could steal another taste if his tongue was only long enough. Grimmjow whined and tried to shift a final time, and the hands released his throat. Ichigo sat back, hands curled into loose fists atop his thighs, and he sat back and just...looked. He looked with those eyes and that face and the new expression that Grimmjow couldn’t name and he sat there back against a stiff cock and breathed like Grimmjow couldn’t. His spiritual pressure receded and his eyes lost their flecks of honeyed gold, but he was still so very much _Ichigo Kurosaki_ that Grimmjow didn’t dare yet move. One arm fell out to the side and he touched the other to his throat, massaging what felt like raw flesh.

“Grimmjow,” Ichigo said, in a voice that was...also new. Different. Alien. He couldn’t say he didn’t like it, not when it was saying his name in a tone that promised something vague and unknown but desirable all the same.

“What?” he croaked.

“If you want to fight...we can. But it has to be away from here. Away from people. Can you wait two more days?”

“Why th’ fuck—_two_ more days?! I already waited—“

“I know. I...I know, but in two days it’ll be my weekend and then I won’t have anything to do. We can get away from town and I’ll fight you. _Seriously_ fight you, all out, no holds barred.”

Well...when he put it _that_ way, how could Grimmjow possibly refuse? There was the off-chance that he was lying again, but now that Grimmjow knew where he lived he sincerely doubted Ichigo would do anything to incur his wrath so easily. With so much at stake, it was within Ichigo’s best interests to play along, _properly_, this time.

“Y’ mean it?” Grimmjow asked, panting a little now that he could finally catch his breath. Since when could he breathe? He had been _drowning_ a minute ago.

“Yeah,” Ichigo said, glancing off to the side. “I’m sorry I took so long. I made a promise to you and I intend to keep it. So in two days, we’ll fight. I’ll give you everything you want, okay?”

“Yeah,” Grimmjow said, propping himself up on his elbows, eagerness forcing new life into his aching body. “Yeah, _fuck_ yeah! Two days! You better not flake on me again, I’ll fuckin’—“

“You don’t hafta tell me,” Ichigo said, holding up a hand. “I already have an idea. In the meantime, you should probably see someone about healing up. You look a mess.”

Concern. _Ugh_, Why’d he have to go and ruin a good vibe? Grimmjow scoffed and forced his hips off the ground, trying to buck Ichigo off of him. It worked, and Ichigo shot up like he had been burned, his face flushing a deep shade of red Grimmjow had only seen once or twice before. He didn’t know what that look meant, but it wasn’t anger. It was...something else. Inconsequential to his interests though. Ichigo pulled his _zanpakuto_ free, finally allowing Grimmjow to climb to his feet.

“If you can find Urahara’s, I’ll let him know you’re coming. I’ll give you the address and you can figure it out from there. I’m not gonna hold your hand—I’m too busy to play tour guide.”

“Th’ fuck is an ‘ura-ura’?” Grimmjow asked, running his hand through his hair.

“Ura-ha-ra,” Ichigo repeated, slower. “He’s not exactly a _friend_, but...he’ll help you out. Maybe heal up your wounds. You’ll need to be in top condition for when we fight, right?”

Well...he couldn’t really argue _that_, either. Grimmjow shrugged and stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his _hakama_.

“Whatever,” he scoffed. “I’ll be waitin’ for you. Two days, Kurosaki. Don’t fuckin’ _forget_.”

“I promise I won’t,” Ichigo said, giving Grimmjow a baleful look. “Wait here a sec.”

He disappeared inside his house, emerging a few moments later with a piece of paper with some words scribbled on it, none of which made sense to Grimmjow. Ichigo read it to him twice and pointed southeast.

“It’s a little shop surrounded by big buildings, kinda hidden,” he said. “Just concentrate on spiritual pressure and you’ll probably sense it. And be _nice_. Pretty sure Kisuke can hand you your ass if he really wanted to.”

“_Tch_,” Grimmjow scoffed. “I’d like t’ see ‘im _try_...but I’ll be good. Don’t wanna waste my energy on anyone but _you_.”

Ichigo’s face turned, if possible, a shade redder. His skin almost matched his hair, and Grimmjow cocked his head to the side, curious about this sudden change. Ichigo smelled...hot. Feverish. Grimmjow could almost scent the pounding of blood in his veins, too—he could pick up the faint pounding of his heart, and noticed it was beating a pace faster than usual.

“I’ll tell him to expect you,” Ichigo said, quickly turning around. “Goodnight, Grimmjow. I’ll see you in two days.”

He left him then, left him standing in six inches of dirty water with blood dripping down his belly from the shallow cut nicking the inside of his hollow hole. He left him with fire still raging through his blood, left him with raw knuckles and the taste of blood on his tongue. He _left him_...but this time it didn’t feel so final. This time, at least, Grimmjow knew it wasn’t a lie. He tilted his head back and looked up to the sky, to all the stars winking pathetically from so far away and inhaled deeply.

_Two days_.

He could wait. He could be patient. He could be what everyone always said he couldn’t, and he’d do it because _he_ wanted to, not because some asshole _told_ him to. He’d wait, sit on his hands, subject himself to healing or whatever, because doing so brought him one step closer to finally getting what he wanted.

_Two days_.

Grimmjow closed his eyes and felt the wind shift through his wet hair, felt a chill in his skin.

_Two more days, Kurosaki. Just you **wait**._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'll be honest, I restarted this chapter like three times before I was satisfied with where it was going. I'm not too sure about the end, but I'll let you guys be the judges there. This is probably my longest chapter to date, and I'm hoping it'll stay that way 'cause these longer chapters wipe me out, lol. I want to thank everyone again for reading and reviewing, ya'll have been super sweet and supportive of this little fic and it definitely keeps me going! I hope everyone had a good Christmas/Hanukkah, or just Happy Holidays in general! Happy New Year, and I'll catch you all on the flip side! Please don't forget to review if you're able to, I do love to hear what you think of every chapter! Thanks again, you guys are very special to me!

“So what is this place?” Grimmjow asked, sneering at the back of Ichigo’s head as they hiked up a forest path like a couple of fuckin’ idiots.

Yeah, _hiked_, like they weren’t capable of preternatural speed and flight in their spirit forms.

Grimmjow scratched at his chest, feeling caged in an entirely different way—the _gigai_ Urahara had provided was a near perfect replica, but wearing it felt like trying on clothes that were several sizes too small. He moved gingerly, feeling slow and encumbered by this fucking sack of meatflesh designed to make it easier to traverse through the world of the living...though what was _easier_ about being forced to rely on public transportation was a mystery that not even Ichigo could adequately explain.

‘_It’s just better this way,’_ he had said, exasperated with the tenth question Grimmjow had lobbed his way as they sat crammed into the narrow seats of a bus, shoulder to shoulder and thighs touching. Grimmjow had bared his teeth and snarled, and Ichigo had slapped a hand over his mouth and hissed at him to _reign it in_.

So fucking _what?_ They had made it off the bus without Grimmjow killing the driver for going too slow and making too many stops and allowing _more_ humans to eat into precious time that could be spent dragging Ichigo through the ground, and that alone was a miracle. Grimmjow shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the black jumpsuit Urahara had forced him into and kicked at a rock in his path. It bounced ahead, nicking the heel of Ichigo’s shoes and rolling off into the shrubbery.

“Somewhere we won’t be disturbed,” Ichigo said, not bothering to comment on Grimmjow’s foul mood, or his constant grousing. “I’ve only been here a few times before, training, but we’ll be able to….”

He trailed off, like he normally did when it looked like he’d have to admit something to himself that he didn’t wanna. Grimmjow just rolled his eyes and reached out to yank the back of Ichigo’s jacket.

“When are you gonna fuckin’ admit that you’ve been lookin’ _forward_ t’ this?” he asked as Ichigo yelped and choked. “I’m not _stupid—_I can see it in your eyes, that you _want_ this as much as I do.”

“_Let go_,” Ichigo said, yanking himself out of Grimmjow’s grip. “I’m not hiding anything! I agreed to this, didn’t I?”

But there was a difference between agreeing to a promise already made and _admitting_ that the battle itch got him nice and hot. That was the thing Grimmjow didn’t understand, why Ichigo _insisted_ on acting like this was all some debt he had to fulfill instead of the burning _need_ to test their strength against one another.

Need?

Nah, it was more than that. Grimmjow searched for and was unable to find a word that was big enough for what he felt. He shouldn’t have to work that hard to explain something that Ichigo should already know—he should already know what it felt like, the heat raging through him, blood boiling beneath the surface of his skin until all the hair on his arms stood up. He shouldn’t have to explain how it consumed his every waking thought, how it was the _only_ thing he had left to him, that was his, that he could say belonged to _him_. This wasn’t just Ichigo’s promise anymore—it was _theirs_, something they had made together, binding like blood in the sands of Hueco Mundo. It was something shared, something that Grimmjow refused to let go of no matter _what_.

Ichigo could act aloof all he wanted, could put on any mask and pretend that this wasn’t affecting him in the slightest...but Grimmjow remembered otherwise.

And it was worth it, in the end. This rising sensation, each footstep up this trail feeling like he was climbing toward a precipice, the anticipation in his chest so thick he almost couldn’t swallow past it. Grimmjow rolled his tongue against the roof of his mouth, feeling parched. He couldn’t wait to discard his _gigai_. It was too...it was too much. He didn’t _need_ it. It was in his way.

“How much longer?” he growled, staring daggers into the back of Ichigo’s head.

“Ten more minutes,” Ichigo sighed after checking the device on his wrist. “Be patient. We’re almost there.”

Ten fucking minutes and every second was agony. Grimmjow chewed the inside of his cheek, kept his eyes trained on the center of Ichigo’s back and he _hoped_ he could feel it, the heat of his glare boring into his spine. ‘Be patient’, like that’s not what he had been the entire time he had been stuck at Urahara’s, waiting for Ichigo to come collect him like some lost little pet. Waiting at that place had been nothing short of _torture_, but he had behaved himself for the sake of this fight. The _least_ Ichigo owed him was a little enthusiasm on the side.

But he had to admit, he wasn’t opposed to this remote location. Anticipation crawled up his spine at the thought of finally being able to go all out and not have to worry about Ichigo bitching about how he _might_ be killing some ‘innocent bystander’ or whatever.

Better yet, it’d mean that _Ichigo_ could finally let loose too. He had been holding back last time, even at the very end when he had Grimmjow pinned in that fucking hole with his sword lanced through his gut. It wasn’t fair, that he kept that side of himself locked away. What did he have to gain by restricting his power? It wasn’t like Grimmjow couldn’t handle it...and it wasn’t like Ichigo was _afraid_ of his own abilities. He had fuckin’ owned that shit back in Hueco Mundo! He had been...so damn amazing! The only pity was how long he had waited to bring it out, when they could have been going blow for blow the entire time. Grimmjow liked showing off, but more than that he craved a fight on equal footing.

Just...how strong _was_ Ichigo when he was going full throttle, balls-to-the-wall, no holds barred? What was it like when he broke past his own limits?

Grimmjow wanted to say he had an idea...maybe Ichigo was _more_ powerful than he had let on during their fight. Maybe the best of what Grimmjow had seen wasn’t even the best Ichigo had to offer. He wasn’t _stupid_, after all, and he hadn’t been so fucking dead that he hadn’t felt the tremors of activity throughout Hueco Mundo and Las Noches, and the spiritual pressure of something far beyond anything he had ever known, barring Aizen himself. Had that been Ichigo too? Or maybe it was the Other, whoever had taken Nnoitra out. He had questions, many of them, but his curiosity took a backseat to his desire to trade fists.

Ichigo slipped on a bit of protruding root and cursed under his breath before breaching the crest of a hill. Grimmjow followed, a sour look on his face until he saw the clearing opened up before them. It was...it was _perfect_: short grass, nothing to get tangled up in, no rocks in the way, no mud, and the surrounding trees hid them from view and would act as soundproofing to whatever noise they ended up making.

Not that _he_ gave a flying fuck about it, but for Ichigo, yeah, he could see why this was preferable to the streets of that little town.

“This it?” he asked, impatient all over again as Ichigo dropped the backpack he had carried all the way up there and unzipped his jacket. Ichigo just gave him a look and shook his head, a small smile playing on his face. Grimmjow’s heart beat loudly in his chest, anticipation and excitement quickly overtaking any rational thought.

“Yeah, go wild,” Ichigo said. “Gimme a moment to get ready; and you at _least_ need to make sure your _gigai_ doesn’t get destroyed.”

Grimmjow scoffed and took a deep breath, rejecting the physical form he had been given as easily as removing a shirt. It folded like fresh laundry, crumpled on the ground and looking strangely peaceful despite being completely lifeless. Grimmjow didn’t spare it a second glance before taking off at a sprint, running an entire lap around the clearing before rocketing up into the sky to take stock of his surroundings. Ichigo just sighed and grumbled to himself before grabbing the _gigai_ under the armpits and dragging it a safe distance away and propping it up underneath a large tree.

Grimmjow crowed with delight as he somersaulted through the air, laughing as loudly and raucously as he wanted with no one to tell him to shut up or quiet down. Being cooped up for days in that stuffy little hovel, forced to stay in one room and not cause trouble, forbidden from wandering around outside, even just for a little bit? Ichigo should’ve been thanking him on his fucking _knees_ for not murdering everyone there, _especially_ Urahara. Grimmjow didn’t like to be caged and kept like a fucking mutt—his ego had taken the hit, but he had laid low and accepted it like some kind of fucked up punishment because getting himself healed back into top fighting condition was priority above all else.

But _fuck_, he didn’t understand how people could force themselves to do that, just live their entire lives chained to the same plot of land when the world was so much bigger than the insides of their little shacks. All this open air and space, all these fuckin’ trees and grass and the scent of the mountains drifting down, the clean air and fresh water from a river running nearby..._nothing_ compared to that. Hueco Mundo had been so lifeless, so dead and barren Grimmjow knew he’d probably die if he was ever forced to go back. The air was stale and dead, the sand bleached bone white, the sky a black and empty void. Nothing was _meant_ to survive there...maybe that’s why Hollows howled the way they did. Maybe they knew they were dying, and maybe they knew that place was killing them.

Grimmjow threw himself into the grass and rolled for a moment, stretching his arms out as far as they could go and inhaling the vibrant scent of the grass crushed beneath him. The sun was warm against his skin—would he have bothered to appreciate all this trapped in that _gigai_? Did humans even understand how fuckin’ _lucky_ they were?

“Having fun?” Ichigo called out.

Grimmjow rolled and climbed to his feet, stretching his arms across his chest and rolling his shoulders. Ichigo was wearing the black robes of a Soul Reaper, that gigantic sword at his back and the wind rustling through his bright hair. Grimmjow stared and a lazy smirk crept across his face.

“I will be,” he said, his tone teasing. He shucked off his white jacket and unzipped the black jumper down to his waist. He noticed Ichigo staring as he tied the sleeves in a knot right below his hollow hole and frowned, crossing his arms over his bare chest in annoyance.

“Well?” he snapped. “Fuckin’ do it. You think we came all th’ way out here just t’ piss around?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Ichigo said, shaking his head like he had to force himself back to reality. He pulled his sword from his back and held it in front of him, closing his eyes for a hot second and taking a deep breath.

“_Ban-kai._”

Instantly, the spiritual pressure in the entire clearing shifted course. Grimmjow narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air until the swirling miasma of spiritual residue dissipated, revealing Ichigo with a slimmer, more wieldy sword.

_Good_, Grimmjow thought to himself, _but not good enough_.

“Bring it out,” he said, refusing to move.

“Bring what out?”

“You fuckin’ deaf? You _know_ what I’m talkin’ about. That _thing_. I want it, so bring it out.”

Ichigo’s forehead wrinkled a bit as he considered Grimmjow’s demand, but the look of confusion on his face was so pleasantly oblivious that Grimmjow wanted to grab him by the neck and throttle him for playing stupid. Of _course_ he knew what he was talking about! What else did he have in his arsenal? Why would he choose to hold back that one part of him that had made all the difference in their last battle? Maybe trump cards were made better use of when they were kept hidden away until the last moment, but it did him no good if Grimmjow already knew about it.

“Listen,” Ichigo said, stalling, “I can do that, but...you should know I can only hold that form for a very short while. Like...just a few minutes. It’s not going to be any fun for you if I do it that way.”

“I don’t give a _fuck_,” Grimmjow growled. “I want you at your _best_. That’s your _best_, isn’t it? That form? That’s you when you’re _perfect_.”

Ichigo’s face did that stupid thing again, turning red for no fucking reason. Grimmjow glared until that shade deepened and Ichigo’s eyes finally met his.

“I’ll—I’ll give it to you,” he said, “but I don’t wanna hear you complain when it’s not what you expect.”

“Tch,” Grimmjow snarled, uncrossing his arms and falling into a crouch, “I’m gonna pound you into the fuckin’ _dirt_. Your little mask doesn’t scare _me—_I’ve been wearing one my whole _life_.”

“_God, _you’re so edgy,” Ichigo muttered. Grimmjow watched, his eyes narrowed into thin slits as Ichigo sheathed his sword and stabbed the entire thing into the ground. He wanted to say something but didn’t, since it looked like his nemesis had finally come to some kind of fucking decision without anymore prompting. Ichigo raised his hand in what felt like slow motion; a bead of sweat ran from the hair at the back of Grimmjow’s neck all the way down his spine and he felt the fathom sensation of his lost tail twitching in anticipation. He licked the edge of his mouth, felt every muscle in his body tense—Ichigo curled his fingers in the air above his head, fixing Grimmjow with a look hot enough to melt steel.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“If you don’t fuckin’ _get a move on_\--”

Ichigo pulled his hand down, closing his fingers into a fist and the mask followed, weaving itself together from nothing and hiding his soft face from view. Grimmjow saw though, he could still see _everything_, the way the sclera of his eyes turned black as night and the brown rings turned bright, shining gold. The sweat on his back chilled as a shiver worked its way into his bones, and he barked out a laugh, bending his knees for the attack. Again, the spiritual pressure changed, but instead of the rolling storm of Ichigo’s usual release, this felt entirely different, like a vacuum was sucking all the sensation out of the air, leaving behind a void of nothingness. Grimmjow felt a pain in his chest, his lungs aching to fill, like he couldn’t...couldn’t fucking _breathe_ but goddamn, there it was...there was that form he had been so desperate to meet again, ever since Hueco Mundo.

“About fuckin’ _time_,” he growled before springing forward, talons extended and ready to rend through flesh and bone.

In an instant, he was across the clearing, right up in Ichigo’s face and ready to tear his fucking head off—but in the blink of an eye, Ichigo was gone and Grimmjow’s talons swiped through the hazy after image of a mirage left behind. He didn’t have time to turn around before he felt warmth at his back followed by a series of sharp jabs in his side—pain exploded through his ribs, his bones cracking beneath the force of the blows and Grimmjow threw his elbow out to the side with a roar, aiming for whatever piece of Ichigo he could hit first.

A solid hand caught his arm as it swung, gripping tight and twisting it back until his shoulder felt like it was about to give out; Grimmjow went limp, dropping down and rolling with the twist until the pressure let up and he was able to wrench his arm free. Ichigo stood over him, fists raised and his golden-bright eyes shining behind his mask. Grimmjow bared his teeth and opened his mouth at Ichigo in thick, heated hiss.

So he was faster. Big fuckin’ _deal_.

“_Get up,_” Ichigo taunted in that murky, garbled voice, strafing around Grimmjow, gliding, like his feet weren’t even on the ground. A sharp fist hammered against his cheek, sent him rolling through the grass. He sputtered and scrambled back up, hands up in front of him, but Ichigo was _there_, right in his fucking face, his palm slamming into the middle of Grimmjow’s forehead and shoving him back so damn hard his neck felt like it was about to _snap_. White hot pain exploded into the back of his skull as his back met the dirt and his feet came off the ground, but he twisted his body, his spine curving to bring his legs in a lock around Ichigo’s torso. Grimmjow laughed—he was bigger and heavier even if Ichigo _was_ faster like this, and it took almost no effort to keep the momentum going, to roll his entire body back onto his shoulders and use the superior strength of his leg-lock to fling Ichigo face first into the fucking ground.

But before Grimmjow could climb back to his feet, Ichigo had vanished again, leaving behind only a whiff of dust from where he had kicked off. His senses were fucking scrambled from hitting the ground; he couldn’t scent him anymore, couldn’t get a solid grasp on where he was based off of energy signature or spiritual pressure or _anything_. The vacuum was all-encompassing, robbing him of his ability to _see_. Had it been like this the last time Ichigo had assumed this form? He couldn’t remember anything apart from the way the tides of their battle had changed, and the way he had fallen—the way he _would_ have fallen if Ichigo hadn’t grabbed his wrist.

Even then, his senses had been consumed with Ichigo, from the warmth of his hand to the scent of his blood and the heat of his gaze—not pitying, like he had initially thought, but sympathetic. There was a difference. He didn’t know what it was, but it was there, somehow.

This wasn’t like then, though. His heart felt like it was buzzing from how fast it was beating, his head felt light and fuzzy. The only sound he could hear was the whistle of wind directly over his head and all the thousands of little internal noises that came from his own body. Grimmjow whipped around, his eyes wide as he tried to pinpoint Ichigo’s location to no avail.

“Where th’ _fuck_ are you,” he whispered to himself as he scanned the treeline.

Warm breath tickled the back of his neck.

“_Thought you’d be better at this._”

“_**FUCK!**_” Grimmjow jumped, spinning in a tight circle.

Again, Ichigo was just _there_, so close, lifting the bottom half of his mask to shoot Grimmjow a cocky smile that made him feel even more light-headed—the emptiness inside of him abated in that brief moment, like a little bit of _something_ had poured itself into the hollow center of his missing soul and gave him just a taste of what it was that he was still lacking, that _something_ he was only able to find through fighting. Desperation gripped him, and Grimmjow made another swipe at Ichigo, knowing he’d miss.

“I’m gonna _fucking __**kill you!**_” he howled as Ichigo ducked beneath his arm and shouldered him right in the center of his chest.

“_You can’t even __**hit**__ me,_” Ichigo laughed, the sound of his voice grating against Grimmjow’s ears. “_How are you gonna kill me if you can’t __**touch**__ me?_”

_Fuckin’ shithead,_ Grimmjow thought to himself. But this was what he wanted.

He chased Ichigo across the clearing, kicking up mounds of dirt and destroying the grass. He both hated and loved the way his nemesis kept just one step ahead of him, his robes fluttering just a hair’s breadth away from the sharp point of his talons, dancing backward as Grimmjow sprung after him. He was _laughing, _taunting and teasing in a way that was so familiar it made Grimmjow laugh too, because how many times had he thrown himself at Ichigo with the same level of confidence? How often had he hurled Ichigo’s own weakness back at him, urging him to let go and unleash everything he had, to stop holding back all that power and just fucking _give it to him_, the way he wanted?

This was no different—it was _exactly_ the same thing, the same tactics reflected right back at him and the irony tasted like victory against his tongue, something satisfying the persistent ache of emptiness within. The blood that coursed through his veins felt pressurized, almost painful, but he felt _alive_ and on_ fire_, like nothing could touch him. He was aware that he was grinning as he chased after Ichigo, grinning through each glancing blow thrown his way, through the taste of blood in his teeth and the sting of sweat in his eyes.

And Ichigo...he was _amazing_. Grimmjow had always thought so, had always known since the day Ichigo gave him his scars—that was the same day he had felt the hunger inside him lessen, just a little bit; it was the first time he realized he _could_ fill the emptiness within.

And _fuck_, he had quickly addicted himself to the feeling it gave him.

Ichigo was so goddamn lucky—he’d never know what it was like, to exist like they did, forever searching and seeking for something to fill the longing inside of them. Grimmjow didn’t eve know if the others suffered as he did, because no one ever fucking talked to another about it. Halibel, Starrk, and Barrigan, they were all too aloof, too far removed from everyone else. Ulquiorra kept to himself and would have sooner died than reveal anything that could be considered a weakness on his part. Nnoitra? It was laughable, the very notion of him talking about his feelings, the others were beneath Grimmjow’s notice.

So he didn’t know...and maybe he was the only one who hungered the way he did, and maybe it was the reason why he had always felt so _different_ compared to his brothers and sisters. He had been Othered from the very beginning, pushed aside and dismissed as a rebel and a troublemaker. If they didn’t want anything to do with him, then fine, he didn’t give a damn either. Ulquiorra was the only one he tolerated in small doses, and he knew the feeling was fairly mutual.

But Ichigo...Ichigo made him feel _whole_. He didn’t ache when he was around Ichigo—or if he did, he was strong enough he could ignore the pain, ignore the hunger, ignore everything that didn’t have anything to do with the way Ichigo looked at him, the way it felt to cross swords, the way the wind swept through his hair and the surge of spiritual pressure warped around them. If he was fighting Ichigo, at least, he didn’t have to feel anything except the freedom that came with being someone’s fucking _equal_, respected and admired, _feared_. Grimmjow felt saliva well up around his gums as his leg cut through the air, coming down from a high crescent kick that would have split Ichigo’s head in two had he not dodged at the last moment.

He didn’t know how long he had been fighting for, only that it seemed with every passing second, Ichigo grew faster and more agile. He was a blur across the field, and when he darted close, Grimmjow was unable to fully block against the fury of blows unleashed. Each hit rained down against his forearms as he held them up in front of his head, but the weight behind them was so different from Ichigo’s usual bare-handed attacks. His bones felt like they were ready to cave in, but his skin was numb to the touch. He swiped back at every opportunity, opened himself to more attacks just to get one shot in, but it never connected.

He should have been pissed about that.

He should have lost his cool.

But he couldn’t, not when Ichigo was _finally_ starting to enjoy himself.

His laughter rang out across the clearing as he shot by, landing another four consecutive punches to the center of Grimmjow’s chest—it took the air right out of his fucking lungs and he staggered back, dropping his stance. He made the mistake of blinking, and when he opened his eyes again, there Ichigo was, staring at him from behind the mask of a Hollow and _snickering_.

This time, there was no blocking, no dodging the way Ichigo grabbed him around the back of his neck and yanked him over. Grimmjow saw his knee come up and tried to steel himself, but the bone nailed him right in the center of his forehead and he keeled over, nose broken and bloodied and a fresh, open wound at his hairline.

“_Fuckin’_,” he groaned, rolling onto his side and curling his arms over his head, his temple _throbbing_. Godamnit...what the _fuck?_

Ichigo didn’t give him a moment’s reprieve though, just grabbed him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back before sitting atop his stomach to pin him. Familiarity breeds contempt, or that was the saying Grimmjow had heard Gin use once or twice, and he snarled at the way Ichigo settled his weight atop him, knees clamped hard on either side and staring down through the dark holes of his mask with what Grimmjow could only assume to be a smug and triumphant look.

“Here t’ gloat?” he wheezed, spitting blood out from between his lips as he tossed his head back against the ground. He could feel blood from the gash on his head leak back of his scalp, soaking into his hair, but he didn’t care about _that_. He wasn’t wounded so bad he was gonna die, and blood was just blood; it’d wash off.

“_Thought you wanted a fair fight,_” Ichigo said, cocking his head to the side. The way his voice sounded was...it wasn’t _right_, but it was still Ichigo. He could hear it, underneath that strange filter that made him sound like he was trying to talk underwater.

“_You givin’ up so easy? I was just gettin’ started._”

“Fuck you,” Grimmjow said, turning his head to the side to spit. “You pinned me...fair enough, right?”

“_It’s not like you to give up._”

“S’not like you t’ ditch th’ sword.”

Ichigo paused and looked up to the sky. Grimmjow watched him with slitted eyes, panting heavily and trying to gather the necessary strength to throw him off. He _wasn’t_ giving up, he was just...taking a break. He needed to breathe. Ichigo was fucking _suffocating_ him with his weird spiritual pressure—hardly a _fair_ fight, under those circumstances. He watched as the wind sifted through Ichigo’s hair, carrying with it a few brown leaves and white-tufted seeds from dandelions. The tail end of his robes fluttered, draped over Grimmjow’s legs and he shifted his hips, trying to force a small rock from being lodged against his spine. The movement brought Ichigo back down from whatever thought he had been chasing after, and he looked at Grimmjow with those golden eyes and a stare so poignant it made all his blood turn molten in his veins, made him feel like all of the sudden he was burning up, despite the cool air and sweet breeze.

“_Grimmjow_,” Ichigo said, leaning over him. “_I’m going to ask a question. Answer it truthfully._”

“Okay,” he said, swallowing thickly, feeling cornered.

Ichigo blinked, his golden eyes disappearing into black for a second before reappearing. Like daggers. Sharp and relentless, biting into his flesh.

_Cut me_, Grimmjow thought, staring back.

He couldn’t breathe. Was he trying? Could he breathe?

“_Grimmjow,_” Ichigo said again. “_Do you want to eat me?_”

“_Y-yes,_” he whispered back, unable to control the sudden flow of saliva that filled his mouth. He swallowed it down, but his jaw kept falling open, his teeth clicking as he closed it. Why was he panting like a fucking animal? Why was Ichigo sitting on top of him and asking him this stupid, obvious question? Of _course_ he wanted to devour him, to rip his flesh from his bones and feast on his heart—that was the first thing he had told him, wasn’t it? Hadn’t he promised to rip his guts out and drink his blood? Wasn’t that what this was all about?

“_Do you really?_” Ichigo asked.

“I-I don’t know,” Grimmjow heard himself say as his fingers curled into the grass at his sides. He felt like he was leaning back, shrinking away from Ichigo, like if he had the ability to just burrow away he might have done so, because it was...it wasn’t _too much_, but it was unnerving, with that mask and that voice, those fucking _eyes_ he both loathed and adored. He almost looked away from the intensity of Ichigo’s gaze. His body felt hot; he was sweating, he realized, but this seemed to have nothing to do with their fight. He felt hot in...in a different way.

Grimmjow watched as Ichigo reached up and slotted his thumb beneath the bottom of his mask, right at the chin. He pulled it up, revealing his mouth. The shape of it was all wrong, all crooked with his blunt, white teeth bared in a smile. It was Ichigo’s smile...and it _wasn’t_.

“_You do and you don’t. I never know what you’re thinking. You say you want to kill me...but then you hold back from doing just that. Where’s your zanpakuto?_”

“Broken,” Grimmjow gasped, planting one boot against the ground and trying to dislodge Ichigo with a sharp buck of his hips.

“_I figured. You wouldn’t have come after me without it, otherwise. A shame. I thought you wanted to go all out._”

He _did_. That’s what he had come here to do! It was his entire reason for leaving Hueco Mundo, for leaving behind _everything_ he had ever known! Panic welled up in his chest at the thought of Ichigo...rejecting him over this. He didn’t _need_ his sword, did he? That wasn’t the way things _had_ to be. Nervous, feeling more trapped than he had ever felt in his entire life, Grimmjow made a low noise in his throat, something akin to a whine.

“I just wanna _fight_,” he said, desperate. “I _have_ to...you’re th’ only one who...you _get_ me. You understand what it’s...what it’s like.”

Ichigo pulled the mask up a little further and his lips pressed together in a more familiar smile...something kinder.

“_I think you’re right_,” he said, quietly. “_You and I...we’re similar. You said so back then, right?_”

“Uh-huh,” Grimmjow agreed, feeling robbed of eloquence.

A split second later, the mask fell to pieces, cracking straight down the middle and crumbling away like soft clay. Pale dust clung to Ichigo’s face, and his eyes lost their unnatural color, fading back to the same warm brown they always were. He looked himself again, soft and stupid, the way Grimmjow thought of him when he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. He wasn’t really human, nor was he Soul Reaper, _nor_ was he Hollow...he was something between those three worlds, caught in a space no one else belonged and unable to break away from that. Grimmjow stared up at him, realizing for the first time, that Ichigo too was Othered...he was, in a sense...alone. There was no one else like him...not really.

“Ichigo,” he said, voice hoarse. He felt lightheaded again, but that could have been the blood loss. His hands came up from the ground, but he didn’t know where to put them, didn’t know what it was he was feeling. His heart was still _pounding_ and he could hear the rush of blood in his ears, but they weren’t moving, weren’t fighting. He had all this fuckin’ energy and nowhere for it to go and nothing to do with it. What was he supposed to _do?_ He looked at Ichigo, something in his eyes asking for help, asking for some kind of fucking clue to tell him what to do because he didn’t _know_...and he felt _trapped_.

Ichigo leaned over him, panting a hand on the ground by his head.

“Hey,” he said, voice so soft he almost had to strain to hear over the hammering in his chest. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” Grimmjow croaked, then, immediately, like it was obvious, he growled. “I don’t wanna die.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you. Just close ‘em.”

He obeyed. What else could he do? Ichigo knew something he didn’t, he could see it in his face, some kind of determination and grit carved into his expression. He _knew_ something. Grimmjow closed his eyes and took a deep breath, licking his dry lips—

Something soft pressed against his mouth, soft and warm and _soaked_ with Ichigo’s scent. It pressed against the tip of his nose and his chin, and Grimmjow opened his mouth on instinct, out of curiosity, and the sensation left him for all of half a second before returning, more firm this time, pressing against the damp inner of his lips, against the sharp of his fangs, until he knew of no other way to combat it than to press back, opening his mouth a little more, trying to feel what it was that Ichigo was doing to him.

Whatever it was...he didn’t immediately hate it.

In spite of Ichigo’s order, Grimmjow cracked his eyes open to see what was happening. As he did, Ichigo pulled away—he had been..._so_ close, so incredibly close that Grimmjow could only stare. He looked flushed, face red in the way it was before, his mouth twitching at the corner, and eyes bright. He looked _alive_ in a way Grimmjow liked...in a way he wished _he_ could be.

“What was that?” he asked, even as the void inside of him shrunk.

For a moment he didn’t think Ichigo was going to answer. He looked off to the side, one hand curled into the grass by Grimmjow’s head and the other resting on his chest. But Ichigo wasn’t weak, and he wasn’t some coward. He took a deep breath and looked back, his ears as red as his hair.

“A kiss, dumbass. It was…it was just a kiss.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST THINGS FIRST, PLEASE CHECK THE TAGS!!!! I have added new tags to reflect changes made in this chapter that definitely lives up to the rating! Hopefully! Also, THANK YOU SO MUCH to those who read and reviewed and left kudos! You're all so wonderful and some of the reviews made me cry??? They were so nice and I was honestly shocked because the last chapter was a bit of mixed emotion for me when I posted it because I wasn't IN LOVE with it, but apparently you guys were and it made me so happy! So big, HUGE thank you to everyone! You guys rock! And honestly, this chapter comes as a bit of a thank you for being patient and reading and being troopers as I try to figure it out. This was always going to have smut in it, but here's a little bit of a payout. This wasn't going to happen this way, but then it did because the chapter basically wrote itself over the course of a day. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it, which was a lot! And, of course, please review if you can and tell me what you think! Thanks again for supporting this story!!

Time stopped, not that he had ever paid any attention anyways.

“A kiss…,” Grimmjow echoed, licking his lip again. Ichigo sat atop his stomach and wouldn’t look at him, stared out over the field like it was so much more interesting. Grimmjow watched as his throat worked up and down, sharp eyes following the bump of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. Sweat made Ichigo’s skin shimmer and one fat droplet rolled down from his hairline, tracing the sweet line of his jugular. It hung there on his throat, teasing and succulent, tempting Grimmjow to taste.

“Sorry,” he heard Ichigo say. “I don’t know why I—sorry. That was weird of me. I shouldn’t have—“

“Again,” Grimmjow croaked, his throat dry and itchy.

“Huh?”

Ichigo looked at him now, eyes wide and expression tense. There was something vulnerable in the way he stared down, his face soft and open despite the way his jaw clenched. Grimmjow caught the way his nostrils flared with the slightest increase in his breathing, and it excited him in a way that a chase always did—like Ichigo was still running away from something, even though he was sitting perfectly still. Like...like he still needed Grimmjow to catch him.

“_Again_,” Grimmjow growled, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of Ichigo’s _haori_ and dragging him closer. Ichigo slammed his hands atop Grimmjow’s chest to stop himself, and the bare contact of his palms felt like fire and ice all at once. Grit worked between their skin, each one a minute pinprick of discomfort that meant nothing when he could feel Ichigo digging his fingernails in to halt his movement, the blunt edges too soft to do any real damage. Grimmjow breathed deep, his chest rising and falling with the motion as he fought to quell the hammering of his heart.

“I wanna watch,” he said, voice rough. “Why, you fuckin’ _scared?_”

“It’s...it’s not somethin’ you watch,” Ichigo said, but his eyes told a different story, kept glancing down Grimmjow’s face—he could feel the heat of Ichigo’s gaze on his mouth and dragged his tongue against his lower lip in another quick little anticipatory swipe and he didn't know _why_, didn’t get why he felt the way that he did when they weren’t—weren’t _doing_ anything, but this was just the way his body chose to respond to the threat of Ichigo atop him and leaning closer even though he made his stupid fucking protests like usual.

“I don’t fuckin’ _care_,” Grimmjow said, tilting his chin up defiantly. “Do th’ kiss again...or I’ll do it my_self_.”

Ichigo laughed, a soft noise that annoyed Grimmjow. Weak and dumb, barely a huff. Why’d he laugh like that? Why’d he suddenly look away? Why was his face so fucking _red?_ Didn’t he take _anything_ Grimmjow said seriously? That was a _threat_ and he was laughing like it was some kind of lameass fuckin’ _joke_. Well _fine_ then, if that’s how he wanted to fuck around, then Grimmjow would show him that on _his_ end at least, this was _serious_. He yanked again, harder, and wrapped his other arm around the small of Ichigo’s back, forcing him down so close that their stomachs touched.

“_Grimm_—” Ichigo hissed, laying atop his own forearms and using them for what little leverage he could muster.

Grimmjow opened his mouth and snapped his jaws at the point of Ichigo’s chin, craning his neck to reach. This close, he could feel the heat radiating off of Ichigo’s skin, and it was so much like it was back then, the current of blood racing through his veins, the tantalizing scent of his sweaty skin, the sweet heat of his open mouth as he gasped in shock and the beat of his pulse fluttering against his throat, delicate and vulnerable, like the wings of a moth caught in a spider’s web…. His teeth grazed soft skin and he groaned, unsure what it was he was reaching for but _certain_ that this was the way. Their faces had been so close—what else could Ichigo have been trying to do, if not bite him?

“S-stop,” Ichigo said, squirming. “_Stop_, close your—close your mouth, _weirdo_, I’m not gonna—you can’t _kiss_ like that!”

“Why not?” Grimmjow demanded, his arm tightening around Ichigo’s waist.

“Because you don’t use your _teeth!_”

“_Why?_”

Ichigo made a noise in his throat and thrust a hand between them to grip Grimmjow’s jaw—the act thrilled him straight to his gut, like a red hot lanced speared straight through the hole in his stomach and all the heat tingling the incredibly sensitive space between. Grimmjow squirmed and twisted his head back and forth, but Ichigo’s grip was relentless, his fingers solid iron rods hooked into the solid bone affixed to his jaw.

He watched, eyes wide open this time, as Ichigo leaned in with his eyes screwed shut and pressed his mouth to Grimmjow’s.

_Ah_.

_That’s_ what was so soft.

He was gonna go fuckin’ _cross-eyed_ from the way his eyes focused down the length of his nose to try and fit the shape of Ichigo’s entire face into the frame of his vision—long lashes pressed against his skin and faint, downy hair covered his cheeks. The bridge of his nose pressed against Grimmjow’s and the tip pressed into his cheek; he could scent Ichigo’s heavy breathing, warm, moist and fragrant, felt the thundering of his heart as their chests pressed together, and he _felt_ the way Ichigo relaxed against him, his entire body going loose as he began to lean his weight on his elbows instead of his legs. Grimmjow stared as Ichigo pressed against his mouth harder, waiting impatiently for him to pull back...so they could do it again.

But Ichigo opened his eyes first, eyelids flickering as he slowly pulled away, so slow that Grimmjow could feel the dry skin of his lip peeling away from Ichigo’s, stuck together only by spit and the force with which the kiss had been administered. His eyes met with Ichigo’s, and for a moment he thought he saw the image of himself reflected back—but Ichigo blinked and the moment was gone.

“Like that,” Ichigo said in a whisper. Why was he whispering? There was no one else around for fuckin’ _miles_, and even if someone _did_ stumble upon this clearing, it wasn’t like they could be seen by the average human, with their weak vision and general lack of spiritual awareness.

“Why?” Grimmjow asked again. He didn’t know what he wanted to hear. Why did Ichigo kiss him? What did it mean? Why now? Why not _then?_ What did he want in return? What happens next?

“Because.”

Like that was some kind of fuckin’ answer.

Grimmjow snarled and bared his teeth before snatching a hand around the back of Ichigo’s head, his talons biting into the soft flesh of his neck as he dragged him back down.

His mouth was _burning_.

His lips felt hot and his tongue was wet with need. If that was supposed to be just a _taste_, then it wasn’t enough. It left Grimmjow hungering for more of the same, for more of Ichigo’s mouth against his where his scent overpowered the flowers and the grass and the earth surrounding them, where the only thing that meant something was the way Ichigo pushed back against his chest and struggled against his hold in a way that wasn’t unlike the way they grappled and fought, but was also something new and different and, and, and...and _exciting_.

Grimmjow crushed his mouth to Ichigo’s, ignoring his insistence that teeth weren’t meant to be used, because that sounded like a whole lotta _bullshit_. What good were teeth when not used for biting? What was the point of a kiss if it was only ever meant to be soft? It felt _right_ to open his mouth just a bit, just enough, and it felt _right_ to set his teeth to the plump flesh of Ichigo’s lip and bite down. Not hard, because this didn’t seem like the kind of game where the point was to cause pain. Not hard, because he didn’t want Ichigo to put a stop to whatever the fuck this was. But he bit down, the points of his canines pinching against fragile flesh, his hand curled around the back of Ichigo’s neck and the faintest scent of blood drifting through the air as his talons dug into his skin.

Ichigo squirmed against him for a moment, a muffled noise on the tip of his tongue which Grimmjow greedily swallowed down. He liked the way Ichigo’s mouth felt, pliant and soft, the way it would feel to tear into his throat and pull out his jugular and hold the blood-slick veins between his teeth. He felt his teeth puncture past skin, _felt_ blood welling up around his fangs, and he _heard_ the sharp little inhale Ichigo made, the way he exhaled all of it against Grimmjow’s chin in a hushed “_Ow,_” that almost stopped his heart from the way Ichigo _didn’t_ pull away, but pressed against him, his hands a constant motion between and around them as he tried to find purchase—the grass near Grimmjow’s head, the hard muscle of his chest, the curve of his bicep and—_finally—_one hand curling into his hair, fingers tugging just enough to send a warm itch across his scalp.

Grimmjow fought it, but his eyes fluttered shut of their own volition and he opened his mouth, releasing Ichigo’s lip from between his teeth. A half-moan followed, the sound making its way out of his chest without resistance. He felt Ichigo still against him, the hand in his hair loosening its grip. Where their skin met was too hot, sticky with sweat and grime, melded together to the point where it felt like they were peeling apart when Ichigo sat up. Grimmjow cracked his eyes open, his lashes wet with something, and he looked up at Ichigo with the sun behind his head, his expression darkened with shadow but his eyes bright and his hair even brighter, and he knew that even if he didn’t know what a kiss was, what it meant or why it happened, he knew it couldn’t be a bad thing if Ichigo was looking at him like _that_.

Like...like he was the only thing in the entire fucking world.

Like he finally _meant_ something.

“_Again_,” he groaned, arching his back and lifting his ass off the ground. Ichigo moved with him, the sound of his breathing labored and harsh and the acrid scent of copper more apparent. When he leaned down Grimmjow _saw_ it, the smear of blood sticky against his lip, filling the lines that made up its texture and painting his mouth darker and pinker. He shuddered and reached for Ichigo and he was allowed to catch him cause Ichigo _let_ him, leaned down and made it easy for him to slide his fingers back into the short hair at the back of his head—that was damp too, with sweat and the faint trace of blood and the second it got on his fingers he _knew_, knew the same as if he had dipped his hand into an entire bucket of the shit.

Ichigo obeyed faster this time, moving in the same motion Grimmjow pulled him down; their teeth clicked together before their lips met, their movements this time uncoordinated and...and _reeking_ of desperation. The way Ichigo curled over him, his knee knocking into Grimmjow’s elbow, his hand fisting in his hair, and Grimmjow using his leverage around Ichigo’s neck to haul himself off the ground a hair’s breadth. His free hand landed on Ichigo’s thigh and he _squeezed_, claws rending into the fabric to find sweet skin trapped beneath. The heat of Ichigo’s mouth opened to him, the damp gash of his lips pressing against him, wetting his lips as he kissed back, teeth trying to capture that lip again, to squeeze all the blood from it until it sat dead and grey against Ichigo’s face...but no, he didn’t want that.

Not yet, at least.

“_Ouch_,” Ichigo gasped when Grimmjow’s fangs bit back into his lip. His hold slipped and his teeth nicked Ichigo on the

chin before their mouths met again, and this time the fractured moan that sounded out came from Ichigo’s lungs—it sounded so much like a muffled cry of pain that Grimmjow almost flatlined, his heart beating so fast it felt more like buzzing than beating. And it _hurt_ too, his entire body fucking _ached_ in a way that wasn’t unlike the way he’d feel after a good ass-kicking and he didn’t know what that meant, ‘cause it wasn’t like...it wasn’t like he was fuckin’ _damaged_ or anything...but _fuck_, it _hurt_.

Something wet slid along the edge of his mouth and Grimmjow pulled back, just in time to see Ichigo’s tongue—ruby-red and slick with saliva, dripping against his lip like he was taking a taste and oh _fucking shit, fucking __**fuck**_ _what was that, was he tasting, did he taste, what was that_—

Eyes blown wide and pupils dilated, Grimmjow slapped both hands on either side of Ichigo’s face and dragged him back, tilting his head at the last moment to drag his tongue against the side of his face. His skin tasted like earth and sweat, salty and sweet and tender, moist like meat and fragrant. He pressed his nose into his skin and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes so he could better appreciate the fullness of his scent, but he couldn’t stop, and Ichigo didn’t try to make him. Grimmjow pressed the flat of his tongue to Ichigo’s chin and dragged it up, across his lips, dipping into his mouth between his stupid parted lips as he sat there gaping like a fuckin’ dead thing, and the moment his tongue touched the tip of Ichigo’s it was like something violent and electric shot through him, forcing his heart to a great, shuddering _stop_ and causing his entire body to flinch.

Ichigo hesitated for less than a second before his hands curled around Grimmjow’s forearms and he tasted back, his tongue tentative and shy, but slick and wet and—and Grimmjow _whined_, the noise tapering off into a frustrated huff as he pulled Ichigo down. Their foreheads bumped but it didn’t matter ‘cause Ichigo’s tongue slid against his and licked back into his mouth, sharing the taste of himself, _giving it to Grimmjow, giving himself, surrendering his taste_, and it didn’t need to be—it hadn’t ever needed—he could taste the faint coppery essence of blood on his lips, and somehow it was _enough_, it hadn’t needed to be anything more because Ichigo was _giving him_ more than he had thought he could take.

The heat between them exploded with something almost unbearable, to the point where Ichigo dropped a hand to his _obi_ and pulled it out of its knot, loosening the criss-cross ties across his front and exposing his bare chest as his _haori_ fell open. Whatever breeze there had been before didn’t seem anywhere near _enough_ now—the air between was stifling, suffocating, robbing them of the ability to effectively _breathe_ and it was _exactly_ like drowning, Grimmjow thought, except this time the heat filtered into his lungs and he felt himself burning up from the inside.

He moved and felt the hard length of his cock trapped beneath Ichigo’s ass, a sensation not as foreign as he would have thought, but no less _frustrating_ in that there was nothing he could do about it. Grimmjow groaned aloud and drew a leg up, his thigh knocking into Ichigo’s fucking backside and jarring him out of the frenzied way he was stripping himself down to the waist.

The moment Ichigo looked up, eyes wide, Grimmjow knew he had felt it too.

“Get _off_,” he groaned, twisting at the waist to try and get to his knees.

“Wait,” Ichigo said, refusing to move. “Just...just wait a minute. I...I think--”

But he didn’t say what he thought, just put his hands against Grimmjow’s shoulders and forced him flat on his back. Those hands trembled against his feverish skin, the slide of his calloused fingers like fine sand. Grimmjow panted up at him, feeling like all the blood had risen to the surface of his fucking skin, feeling dizzy and light-headed.

“_What_,” he demanded, though his voice came out so light and breathy he refused to believe it was actually _his_.

Ichigo shuffled backwards, using his knees to force apart Grimmjow’s legs until he knelt between his thighs, hovering over him with his hands by Grimmjow’s sides, planted in the grass. He watched, Ichigo’s face shadowed but not hidden, his expression different again, wary this time of some unseen danger. Grimmjow glanced around them, but saw and sensed nothing.

And then hands, hot and cold, damp with sweaty, trembling, set against his stomach, his fingers framing his hollow hole.

Grimmjow snapped his head back to Ichigo, pupils narrowed into thin slits as he watched with predatory interest as Ichigo fumbled with the knot sitting beneath his hollow hole, where he had tied to sleeves of his jumper together. He watched with baited breath as Ichigo painstakingly pulled the knot apart, struggling to set his fingers into the fabric, but they came apart, wrinkled and shriveled, and fell to the sides. Grimmjow watched, unmoving, his entire body so fucking still the movement of his chest rising and falling with every breath crawled to a stop, and every muscle froze in anticipation. Ichigo’s hands were...his fingers, they...they were so close.

And then they _moved_, touching the zipper that ran down the middle of his jumper and he heard Ichigo ask him a question, but the words didn’t sound like words and he couldn’t focus on anything besides the way those hands looked, long-fingered and slender, like they weren’t capable of anything but so fucking strong he knew exactly how hard Ichigo’s punches hit, and knew just how much strength ran up those arms—enough to swing that comically large sword and enough to land him flat on his back. Enough to make him feel a certain way that was new and curious and so _exciting_ it stole the air from his lungs and left him eager for more of the same.

“Can I—?”

“Uh-huh,” Grimmjow said, the sound falling out of his mouth without so much as a thought behind it.

Ichigo pulled the zipper down until his cock popped out, slapping against his stomach and pulsing in time with his heartbeat, hard as a rock and already drooling precum from the tip. He looked up and Ichigo swallowed, his cheeks flushed and his forehead red with heat. He watched as Ichigo pulled his bottom lip between his teeth for a brief moment, and the look in his eyes changed again, to something that Grimmjow was a great deal more familiar with—something _hungry_.

Slowly, like every fucking second that passed by took an age, Ichigo reached for Grimmjow’s erection, his fingers brushing gently against the skin and eliciting a sharp hiss when they made contact. He groaned, stomach heaving as he finally released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. And it was like the noise fuckin’ spooked Ichigo or somethin’, cause he withdrew his hand, rubbing the tips of his fingers against his thumb, his expression pinched and nebulous—Grimmjow watched, unsure what to say, what he _could_ say, and whether or not it’d mean anything if he did, because the look on Ichigo’s face was...it felt like….

“_Again_,” he said...no, _begged_. That was the only word for it, ‘cause that’s what it was, wasn’t it? That was how he sounded when he begged, and he wouldn’t have known ‘cause he had never done it before, but there was no way his voice had ever sounded that way, so thin and reedy and filled with desperation and so much fucking _need_ it almost ripped his body apart at the seams to have Ichigo sitting so close, his hand _right fuckin’ __**there**_ and to not have him touch—it was so painful, painful in the same way his kisses were. It was nothing that left a mark, but Grimmjow _felt_ it in his entire fucking body.

But Ichigo listened and obeyed, his hand returning to Grimmjow’s cock, taking sure hold of it and stroking the shaft with torturously slow movements. He watched like he’d rather scoop out his own eyeballs than look away, watched Ichigo’s hand—scraped knuckles and dried blood flaking from his torn skin—move up and down, bunching his foreskin up over the reddened tip of his cock and back down. Grimmjow tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but it felt too much, and he dropped back, baring his throat and mouth open as he groaned aloud. Fire took root in his gut, pooling like molten lava, like squirming, oily snakes rolling around inside. He drew both legs up, knees bracketing Ichigo’s arms and flexed his hips in a tiny thrust, wanting more but not sure what _more_ was at this point. What _more_ could there be after Ichigo had his hand right where he wanted it?

And Ichigo was relentless, jacking him off like he actually knew what he was doing, like this was something he had done before—and Grimmjow didn’t like that thought so much, that maybe there had been someone else Ichigo had known in his life who could have taught him this, but the thought was brief and quickly brushed aside because it didn’t really matter, not when it was _Ichigo_ between _his_ legs, jerking his hard cock and breathing heavily with the pink tip of his tongue poking between his lips and his face all weird and red and sweaty like he was really concentrating on what he was doing.

“_Fuck_,” Grimmjow gasped when he felt Ichigo roll his thumb over the head of his cock. He looked up in time to watch a translucent string of precum come away, a fat, heavy droplet breaking the connection from Ichigo’s thumb. Grimmjow’s head dropped back hard against the ground and he breathed out his sworn rival’s name in a voice laden with _need_.

There was a noise, the rustle of clothing, and when Grimmjow next strained his neck Ichigo as leaning up on his knees, an arm hooked around the back of his thigh and pushing his legs further apart ‘cause that way there was more room for him to...to lean in and he was..._f-fuck_, he was pressing his fucking cock—_shit_, he was hard too and he was—

“_What?_” Grimmjow asked, feeling trapped in his bones. “What th’ fu—Ichi—_Ichigo_, what’re...what--”

“I’ll stop if you want,” Ichigo said, his voice sounding so sure and strong, like he knew what he was doing, like he was in charge of this ordeal and always had been, and Grimmjow was just someone he invited along for the ride. Grimmjow forced his gaze from where their dicks were barely touching and up to Ichigo’s fucking face and it wasn’t that soft, stupid look, it was...it was strange, how the shape of his face hadn’t changed but the way he looked now made him appear so much less like something Grimmjow wanted to punch and more like someone he wanted to...to….

His eyes were so sharp, his expression firm and confident, mouth quirked in a half smile, a bit of tooth showing from behind his lips and Grimmjow thought his heart was gonna tear itself free of his ribcage and dance down the length of his torso because he had never seen that look on Ichigo’s face before and it was...it was _nice_, it was good and the way he _should_ look, all the time, like _he_ was the predator and had finally caught his fuckin’ prey, even if that meant that their roles had flipped and Grimmjow was the soft, stupid fuckwit with his leg caught in a snare.

_Fffuuuuck,_ he thought to himself, reaching down to touch his fingers to Ichigo’s erection. It was hot and hard, his skin impossibly soft and smooth, like marble, pale like the rest of him, just a few shades lighter than Grimmjow’s own skin—the distinction was clear, and his mouth watered watching Ichigo’s hand move, their fists bumping as they tried to maneuver themselves into something—something meaningful.

“_Shit_,” Grimmjow said under his breath as Ichigo forced his hot length against his own. “_Fuck_, shit, _fuck_.”

“Shut up,” Ichigo murmured back, but his tone didn’t actually imply that he wanted any of that, and Grimmjow didn’t plan on doing as he said anyway. His hand was bigger, and when Ichigo set his dick right against Grimmjow’s he jumped to hold both of them, his long fingers wrapping around both their shafts and squeezing down until he saw fuckin’ stars exploding behind his eyelids. He _groaned_, so deep, so guttural and a noise he couldn’t remember ever making before, but neither could he ever remember _feeling_ this way, where liquid pleasure exploded up his spine and made him arch his back, pressing up against Ichigo who was pressing down against him, and thrusting back and forth, the slide of sensitive skin against skin more than he could bear and yet _still_ not enough, the sound of Ichigo’s soft noises, his little grunts of labored breathing and the small moans he tried to hide by gritting his teeth and letting his chin drop against his own chest, and the way his bicep tightened under Grimmjow’s thigh as he kept his leg hooked off to the side….

_Fuck, _they were a mess, they were a fucking mess and he didn’t know what was happening anymore, didn’t know how fighting could lead to kissing, which led to this, didn’t understand why his body reacted this way to the things it needed, but knowing that he _did_ need it, and knowing that Ichigo at least wanted it enough to contribute. _Fuck it_, he couldn’t think like this, his brain couldn’t follow the thought through, just kept trailing off when Ichigo’s hand joined his, touching the both of them at the same time as they awkwardly rocked together, trying to find the semblance of a pace, trying to achieve an end that Grimmjow only knew how to find by himself, and yet realizing that they could find it together, which was promising.

He hissed and groaned until he felt his balls tighten up, and Ichigo made a pained noise, a small cry that set his hair on end again and his mouth watering for the hundredth time because that was just the way his body reacted to Ichigo, and then Ichigo was so close again, leaning so close over him and shuddering as he spent himself all over Grimmjow’s stomach, thin ropes of milky cum spurting across his abs and chest, and Grimmjow instinctively gripped the sides of Ichigo’s head again, pulled him down and kissed him like he fuckin’ _meant_ it, whatever ‘meant’ could possibly imply, ‘cause he sure as fuck didn’t have a damn clue, but he _liked_ it, and he liked the way Ichigo instantly responded, with his tongue against his lips and pressing back hard, another moan deposited in Grimmjow’s ravenous mouth like a gift, one more thing for him to _keep_, that was _his_ and no one else could take from him.

And Ichigo kissed back, his hand gentle against the remains of Grimmjow’s Hollow mask, his fingers tracing the sharp curve of fangs and the smooth bone, the tenderness of his touch so overwhelming that Grimmjow felt his entire body jerk as his cock pulsed in his hand, twitching as he came too, all over himself like Ichigo had. He held onto the kiss for as long as he could before falling back with a loud exhalation, panting and chest heaving, his bones turned to lead and his blood fucking _molten_ as it raced through his veins. If he had thought he was dizzy before, it was _nothing_ to the way he felt now, laid out in the middle of a fucking field with his own goddamn spunk coating his chest and Ichigo slumped back on his heels and looking a little lost.

Grimmjow drew his forearm over his eyes, not wanting the sun or the sky filling his vision, not able to stare at Ichigo any longer without feeling like he was gonna fucking _murder_ him for this, feeling very much like if his vision just went black that would be a good thing, because it was all too fuckin’ much in the moment.

_Too goddamn much…._

“Grimmjow….”

“_Shut th’ fuck up_,” Grimmjow hissed as his cock twitched the tiniest bit. He flinched with his whole body at the mere _thought_ of having to touch it, but slid his hand down his body to tuck himself back into his jumper nonetheless. He hissed when his skin made contact, having never felt so sensitive and weak in all his life.

“Jus’ _shut up_, Kurosaki,” he growled, cracking his eyes open to squint at Ichigo. “You don’t get t’ say _anything_.”

Ichigo’s face screwed up like he caught the smell of something he didn’t like, and then smoothed right back out into his usual expression. Grimmjow sneered back at him, planting his boot in the center of his chest and pushing him away as he sat up. His heart wasn’t thundering away in his chest anymore, and nothing _hurt_, but he felt so...languid. Watery. Loose. He couldn’t say he didn’t like it, because it was a good feeling. He rolled his shoulders, testing the slackness of his muscles, and shot Ichigo a look. Of _course_ he had already straightened himself out and pulled his _haori_ back up over his shoulders. He couldn’t hide the faint sheen of sweat sitting at the divot below his throat, between his collarbone, though, and Grimmjow stared at it for a moment.

“Did you like it?” Ichigo asked, like it wasn’t the stupidest fucking question in the world. Grimmjow rolled his eyes so hard he felt something strain in his temple.

“So what if I _did?_” he snapped back. “It was...it was a _thing_, and it happened. But...yeah, whatever. _I_ got off, at least.”

Ichigo’s ears turned red and Grimmjow had the realization that they always did that whenever he had just said something blatantly suggestive, or what Ulquiorra definitely would have considered ‘vulgar’.

“Yeah,” Ichigo said, glancing off to the side, down at the grass and rubbing the side of his neck. “Yeah, same here. It was...uhm. It was good.”

“_Tch_,” Grimmjow scoffed, his lip curling at the underhanded implication. He rested his forearms over the tops of his knees and gripped one wrist, also not looking at Ichigo. “It was _okay_. I guess.”

He didn’t need to guess. He didn’t even need to lie, and neither did Ichigo. Grimmjow wasn’t fucking _stupid_, and he knew that it had been...it had been _amazing_, and probably the best thing he had ever felt? He couldn’t be sure, ‘cause fighting was still pretty much the number one thing that could make him feel better than anything, but the way Ichigo had kissed him, and the way he had moved atop him? That had been...that had been pretty nice too.

But it was strange now. The air was the same, but it was different between them. Grimmjow felt a wall erecting itself between them, something invisible, intangible, but a barrier nevertheless, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

They were...they were _riva__l__s_, weren’t they? They only came here to kick each other’s ass and throw down until their bodies gave out, not...not whatever _this_ was...but it had felt _so_ fucking good, and Grimmjow thought about the way Ichigo’s mouth had felt against his and knew he wanted to do it again—he ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth and then against the inside of his lip, thinking, remembering, visualizing….

“Hey,” Ichigo said, capturing Grimmjow’s attention and focus in that way only _he_ could.

“What,” Grimmjow said flatly, glaring in his direction. His skin still burned from the imprint of Ichigo’s hands against his fucking chest. He wasn’t gonna forget that. He wasn’t gonna forget the way Ichigo’s lip felt between his teeth or the way his tongue had licked back at his own. Stupid fuckin’ Ichigo.

“You okay?”

The concern was back, ugly and unappealing. Ichigo tried to hide it from his expression, but you didn’t ask things like that unless you were pitying someone. Fucking _unbelievable_, that he hadn’t figured it out yet. Grimmjow Jaegerjaques needed the pity of _no one_, and _especially_ not coming from _him_.

“I’m _fine_,” he bit back, pushing off the ground with both hands and balancing on the balls of his feet for a moment. He stood up and stretched his arms above his head, hands reaching for the sky like he could tear it down around them. His muscles felt sore, but in a good way. Stiff joints popped, a few bones cracked, but he felt...he felt _good_. Ichigo watched from where he sat on the ground, unmoving.

“We still have one more day,” he said, slowly, like he was trying to remind a child of something it forgot. “I brought some camping gear with me, so I could stay out here for the night, if you want. I made a promise and I intend to keep it.”

“Yeah?” Grimmjow said, his heart leaping in his chest at the thought of going for round two in day two of their little outing. “Fuckin’ stay out here then. I’m not your fuckin’ keeper.”

If he still had his tail, it’d be twitching in pleasure. Maybe he couldn’t hide the grin on his face either, no matter how quickly he turned away and rolled up the rest of his jumper. Maybe Ichigo wasn’t as stupid as Grimmjow sometimes made him out to be, ‘cause he heard him laugh to himself, and the sound wasn’t nearly as grating as it had been before.

“Sure thing, Grimmjow. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching. “You fuckin’ _better_.”

  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. I hope everyone is doing okay! Washing hands, staying away from large gatherings, other safe practices. With the quarantine, I had HOPED that I'd be able to get more writing done but apparently my will to write only shows up at Starbucks or at 3am in the morning, which is basically is here where I live. I'll be honest, I DON'T remember where I was going with this chapter when I started it, so I just wrote what I felt like writing. I'm sorry if this feels disjointed or out of place, I'm honestly just trying to get back into the groove and recapture Grimmjow's voice. Considering I have no earthly idea when I'll be headed back to work, I'll probably try my best to write a little more and get a few more chapters out relatively fast while my muse is in working order. I want to thank everyone who read last chapter and left kudos, to everyone who found this story for the first time, and anyone else who has stuck around despite the fact that I've been MIA for a few months now. You guys are amazing and I feel privileged to continue delivering chapters to you! Let me know what you think about this chapter, please and thank you as always!

“_You don’t have to sleep, I get it,” Ichigo said, glaring at the mouth of his stupid little tent. “But you can’t sit there like a creep an’ watch_ _**me **__sleep.”_

“_I wasn’t fuckin’ __**gonna**__,” Grimmjow spat back, withdrawing his head from the flap and pouting just outside. “Who’d wanna watch your stupid face sleep __**anyways**__? I’d just as soon as kill myself, or wait t’ die of fuckin’ boredom.”_

“_Don’t be dramatic,” Ichigo sighed from within. “I just don’t wanna wake up an’ see you staring over me or something.”_

“_Why th’ __**fuck**_ _would I go an’ do __**that**__?” Grimmjow asked, outraged._

Because Ichigo looked so fuckin’ _different_ when she slept, _that’s_ why.

Grimmjow hovered over him like the creep he guessed he was and narrowed his eyes at the way Ichigo’s eyelashes laid against the curve of his cheek.

_Stupid_, he thought. _Annoyin’._

Starrk had never looked like that when _he’d_ knocked himself out somewhere. Starrk looked like Starrk, but with his eyes closed. Ichigo looked like...like….

Irritated, Grimmjow raised a hand and let it hover over Ichigo’s face. He wriggled his fingers as if trying to decide exactly where and how he should touch; a small part of him was hoping that Ichigo would just wake up, then they could go back to _fighting_. Waiting for his rival to get enough sleep, for him to ‘recharge’—whatever the fuck _that_ meant—was exercising the last of his patience and considering he had never really had much to begin with….

He sighed noisily and dropped the tip of his talon to Ichigo’s soft cheek, poking him with all the gentility he could muster. He didn’t wanna break skin just _yet_, after all.

But he was so fuckin’ _soft_.

It wasn’t like when they were fighting, when all his edges and lines were hard like steel, when his fists hit like rocks and his eyes cut like a knife. Was it possible to be like two separate people? Was it possible for someone to have two sides to themselves that were so fuckin’ _different_ it confused even those who knew them best?

Grimmjow leaned close on his hands and knees next to Ichigo in his cramped little tent, where he laid there like a fish caught in a net, wrapped up all nice an’ toasty in his sleeping bag and he was so completely fuckin’ _unaware_. He was lying there _sleepin’_, all by himself with no one to watch his back, where _anything_ could happen to him an’ he just _laid_ there...like it was _normal_.

Sure, Starrk had slept.

He had slept and Lilynette sat right there with him unless she was off on one of her adventures. Even then, she never went _too_ far from her partner. _Someone_ had to play watchman. But Ichigo slept like he didn’t _need_ someone watching his back, like he trusted that everything was going to be alright and he was gonna wake up when the sun rose sure as shit. He slept like he didn’t have any fuckin’ care in the world—looked like it too.

All _soft_.

Soft like the way Grimmjow’s touch turned when he grew bored with dragging the tip of his talon down the curve of Ichigo’s cheek. He turned his finger to the side and tapped Ichigo again, watching his skin divot. He watched Ichigo’s eyes flutter behind his eyelids and wondered what that meant. Did he think while he slept? Did humans dream easily? What would Ichigo dream of if he did? Did he, too, dream of a world of white and black? A world that existed underwater? Did he drown?

_Could he fuckin’ _ _ **breathe?** _

His eyes flickered down to Ichigo’s bared neck, to the gentle movements beneath his skin, tendons and muscles shifting as he swallowed in his sleep, the bob of his jugular ripe and plump and begging to be tasted. Everything about Ichigo _begged_ something, though—his stupid eyes, begging for Grimmjow to just fucking _go away_, his stupid face, begging to be _hit_, his idiot mouth, begging him to _stop_...and then every other part of him just begging for more and harder and faster ‘cause there was some kinda fucked up disconnect between Ichigo’s mouth and his brain. He said all this shit, talked big about how he didn’t wanna actually fight, that he was only out here ‘cause _Grimmjow_ demanded it, because he had made a _promise_.

Well, _fuck_ his promise in the end after all.

His _body_ knew what it wanted, and Grimmjow could read the shifts in his muscles and the reach of his sword better than any scribbled directions on a shitty little scrap of paper; _he_ knew what Ichigo wanted too, more than Ichigo himself.

He knew _better_.

That’s why he didn’t listen when Ichigo told him to stay outside. ‘_Don’t watch me while I’m sleeping, it’s creepy,’_ he had said, with his lips drawn in that tight little line and the usual furrow between his brows.

Don’t _watch_ him?

Like….he didn’t know that _everyone_ was watching him?

Grimmjow traced Ichigo’s jaw down to the point of his chin, then down his neck. What amused him now, in the space after their fight when his head was clear and his bloodlust sated to the point where he actually _could_ think of things other than how much he had _longed_ for this, _now_ he understood that where his rival was concerned...Ichigo didn’t think he wasn’t that remarkable of a human being.

The revelation had struck him as _weird_; how in the _fuck_ did Ichigo not realize how important he was? How...how _amazing?_

Aizen’s entire fucking plan had been disrupted because of Ichigo—everything he had worked for, all his planning, every contingency he could have accounted for and in the end it had all fallen apart because Ichigo had pushed himself so far past his limit that not even _Aizen_ could have accounted for it. _No one_ could have predicted the outcome of that last battle, or so said the idiot shopkeeper he had been forced to put up with while waiting for Ichigo to finish with ‘school’ or whatever.

‘_Sure, we hoped for the best,’_ Urahara had shrugged one evening, mulling over a cup of warm sake and talking to Grimmjow like they were friends and like his words fuckin’ meant something when they _didn’t_, and even though Grimmjow was hanging on to every detail since it was the first time he was hearing anything about Aizen’s last stand.

‘_It just goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover! Ichigo only __**looks**_ _like a delinquent, but he’s actually veeeeery valiant! I doubt we could have stopped him, at that point.’_

Half the words that came outta his mouth had been nonsense and Grimmjow couldn’t keep up, but every word that orbited Ichigo’s name he clung to like it was a fuckin’ lifeline. He wished...he wished he coulda _been_ there to see him like that...maybe fight alongside him. Just for the opportunity to share in the glory of his victory and to bask in the power he exuded…. Grimmjow didn’t consider himself a jealous bastard, but _fuck_ if he wasn’t one then, laying on the floor and listening to Urahara recount the entire story, enraptured by the vividity of his imagination as it conjured up scene after scene of Ichigo fighting Aizen, kicking his ass all over the place, stripping him of his dreams and aspirations until he was fuckin’ _nothing_.

It felt vindicating, to know that it had been _Ichigo_ who had defeated him.

He didn’t know why, that’s just the way it felt. If it had to be somebody and couldn’t be one of _them_, then he was glad it had been Ichigo—fitting, wasn’t it? Like...poetic justice, that some no-name _ryouka_ from the world of the living just punched a hole into _Hueco Mundo_ and ruined all his neat little plans. Like...like kicking over a row of dominoes after someone spent countless hours lining them up. _Years_ of Aizen’s preparations and planning down the drain, all because he had underestimated one single player.

Grimmjow smirked to himself and pressed his fingers to the pulse fluttering in Ichigo’s throat, feeling a sort of warmth in his belly that almost made him wanna wake his rival up right then and there and _force_ him to spar. What better way to celebrate a victory than a good brawl? He felt the urge welling up inside of him, growing more and more powerful until it threatened to spill over. Grimmjow clenched his jaw and flexed his hand a little, digging his talons into Ichigo’s flesh just a little bit.

“_Mmm_,” Ichigo moaned, shifting and frowning in his sleep.

The noise ripped through Grimmjow like a _cero_ and he froze, froze like he had been fuckin’ _caught_. He expected Ichigo’s eyes to fly open and his brow to wrinkle and his voice asking him what the _fuck_ he thought he was doing after being told not to stare like a _creep_. He didn’t have an excuse, he just wanted...he didn’t fuckin’ _know_, okay, he just wanted to look at Ichigo. It wasn’t _weird_ t’ wanna look at someone!

And what th’ hell was he afraid of _anyway?_ Afraid? _Him?_

_ **HA!** _

He wasn’t fuckin’ _scared_, okay, he just didn’t want Ichigo wakin’ up an’ seein’ him do the exact thing he said he wasn’t gonna do ‘cause then he’d have to listen to him bitch an’ whine all the rest of the damn night and probably into tomorrow and maybe he’d be pissed and cancel their fight. Grimmjow didn’t _want_ that so of course he didn’t want Ichigo to wake up! It was fuckin’ _logic_.

“_Grimm_,” Ichigo groaned, cracking his eyes open and twisting onto his side.

_Fuck_.

“Go _away_, I’m tryin’ t’ _sleep_,” Ichigo grumbled, stretching his arm over his head and reaching for his pillow, which had gotten away from him. Grimmjow just stared, his entire throat dry like sand and his tongue thick and numb at the back of his throat.

Tiny pinpricks of blood blossomed where he had dug his talons in but Ichigo hadn’t seemed to notice. He just yawned and ran his hand through his disheveled hair and smacked his lips as he gave Grimmjow a stupid, sleepy look. He was completely fuckin’ out of it, but at least it wasn’t the bitchfest Grimmjow had anticipated.

“You got somethin’ there,” he whispered, eyes flashing as he looked at the blood. The droplets were so fuckin’ small they could hardly be counted. It’s not like he had hurt Ichigo or anything. He wasn’t gonna tear his throat out or nothin’ like that. He couldn’t _fight_ a dead man.

“_Hmm?_” Ichigo hummed, tilting his head and letting his eyes fall shut. He yawned again and the action worked his adam’s apple up and down—Grimmjow followed it in due diligence, thinking about...about….

_Do you want to eat me?_

He didn’t know. He didn’t...he didn’t fuckin’ know what he wanted anymore. Maybe yesterday, or the day before, he would have said yes. _Absolutely_ fuckin’ yes, of _course_ he did. It was _all_ he wanted...but now..._now_, watching Ichigo and watching him slide a hand under his shirt to scratch at his stomach, watching him blink with squinty eyes and his mouth in a little frown, his fuckin’ hair standing on end with blood dotting his neck in the exact pattern of Grimmjow’s talons...he didn’t _know_ anymore.

He crawled toward Ichigo on his hands and knees, coming so close the tips of their noses touched. Ichigo just looked at him with a tired expression, braced on one arm and not making any move to push him away. A week ago he wouldn’t have let Grimmjow get so close like this—a week ago they’d have pummeled each other on sight, like they had always done before. So what changed? What happened that made Ichigo act like he was fuckin’ _safe_ in Grimmjow’s presence? Like he had nothin’ to fuckin’ worry about, the same shitty confidence that made him believe he could just go to sleep and nothin’ or no one would try to kill him.

And yeah, maybe he had been _right_ to think that, because Grimmjow didn’t really want to _kill_ him anymore. Not like he used to, before he had realized just what it was that Ichigo could give him—how _useful_ he could be, how much _fun_. The thought of _actually_ killing his rival left a sour taste in his mouth. Without Ichigo around, who else would he challenge to a fight? No one else even _mattered_, so what sense was there in destroying the only other person who fucking understood him?

Was it the kisses?

Grimmjow pressed his nose into Ichigo’s soft cheek and inhaled his scent. Ichigo didn’t move, just sighed patiently and let him nose along the side of his face and into the edge of his hairline.

If it was the kisses...well, he couldn’t take those back and was pretty sure he didn’t want to. He had been avoiding thinking about it and hadn’t wanted to talk about it either. Why did they need to? It was a thing that had happened and now it was over with. There was nothing to talk about, anyway. Grimmjow had no regrets after all, and if Ichigo _did_, well that was _his_ fuckin’ problem, wasn’t it. He shouldn’t have started somethin’ he was gonna regret. What kind of idiot _did_ that?

But the kisses had been...nice. He had liked the way Ichigo kissed him, with tongue and a little bit of teeth even though he had said that there was no biting during kissing. Grimmjow had figured that for a lie almost immediately. He had liked the way Ichigo tasted inside his mouth and against his tongue, liked the way Ichigo smelled up close like that, like the way he felt against him. It was like fighting, but not as violent. They still wrestled for dominance, hands gripping and grabbing and holding tight, and even flat on his back Grimmjow had felt like he had held the advantage.

Yeah, the kisses had been _nice_...and the other stuff that came with it even nicer.

Lazily, Grimmjow nosed Ichigo’s head to the side and licked a stripe from the bottom of his ear down his neck. Ichigo shuddered a bit, made a noise, but turned his head.

“_Really?_” he asked, his voice raspy as he fought off another yawn. “Grimm, it’s like...four in the morning.”

“So?” Grimmjow muttered against his neck, not understanding what numbers had to do with it. He figured he didn’t have to just kiss Ichigo’s mouth—his neck was just as good, and he felt Ichigo’s flesh shiver beneath his touch. Good, he liked that.

“So I’m _tired_,” Ichigo groaned, pushing him back. “Can we just...look, just go do something else until morning, okay? I want to _sleep_. I’m _human_. I _need_ it or I’m not gonna be able to do _anything_ tomorrow.”

“That’s fucked,” Grimmjow growled, sitting back on his knees. “You didn’t need sleep _before_, in Hueco Mundo.”

“_Before_ we were at war,” Ichigo grumbled, laying back down and pulling the edge of his sleeping back up so far the only part of him left visible was a tuft of red hair. “My best friend was kidnapped. We were on a time crunch. I was running on adrenaline.”

“Sounds like a weakass excuse t’ _me_,” Grimmjow said, turning and slinking out of the tent.

His mouth was hot and wet as he exhaled into the cooler air outside. He still couldn’t help himself. Being that close to Ichigo, scenting him and listening to the rush of blood through fat arteries just beneath the surface of his skin, it made his mouth water. It made his heartbeat go wild. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore or why he had gone in to look at Ichigo sleeping. Fuckin’ curiosity?

_Fuck_ if he knew.

He didn’t like this feeling though. He didn’t like feeling so out of control, even though ‘out of control’ was how everyone else had always described him. Maybe it was the uncertainty, the not knowing where this was all coming from—maybe because it seemed like Ichigo had a better grasp of what was happening and he wasn’t sharing the fuckin’ details. Maybe Grimmjow just felt..._lost_ in it all.

Lost like an idiot, because he was so far out of his element he didn’t know what he was playing at.

Fighting? Yeah, sure, he _loved_ it and wanted to do it all the time. Everything else? The kissing, the touching, the—the other stuff? Yeah, he had liked that too but he couldn’t go an’ _say_ it out loud to Ichigo’s face. It just...it wasn’t what they had agreed to and he was feeling a way about it that he couldn’t explain because it was the first time he had ever felt that way before and he didn’t have the words to articulate what was going on inside of him. That’s why he had acted like he did immediately after, giving Ichigo a poker face and a cold shoulder.

It had been _so much_, and it happened _so fast_.

What had it even _meant_ to Ichigo? Did it even _have_ meaning?

Frustrated, Grimmjow aggressively ran both hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp until his head buzzed. Outside, there was no moon. It was the darkest dark, but that didn’t mean anything to him. He could see perfectly fine, from the detail in the tree bark across the clearing to the individual blades of long grass swaying in the gentle breeze. Somewhere, a bird made a noise, a deep hooting. Elsewhere, bugs chirped and something moved through the grass at a steady pace, pausing here and there.

Grimmjow sat on his ass and tilted his head back, looking up to the night sky.

In Heuco Mundo, the sky was dark—just pitch blackness as far as the eye could see. It had been as empty as the sands surrounding it, sometimes with a half-moon in the sky, sometimes clouded over. Just a dead sky over a dead land, home to dead things.

The sky here though….

There was nothing but _lights_ in the sky, millions of tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the entire expanse of night, clustered and clumped and spread all over until it was a wonder that they didn’t light up the entire earth. How was it still _this_ dark out? Grimmjow stared and stared, his eyes fixing on some of the lights—_stars_, he knew they were called because he had asked Halibel about them after his first trip to the other side and she had told him what they were called in a voice that had been slightly less stern than usual—until he was _convinced_ they were sparkling.

Some were brighter than others, some were tinted blue and others red. Some looked bigger and others made strange shapes; he wondered if they had meaning, or if they were just something strange that existed in the human world and people just...ignored them? Fucking idiots, humans. If Hueco Mundo’s sky had looked anything _like_ this, he would have laid outside on the dunes all the time, just staring.

They were...real fuckin’ pretty, he thought. Glittering things. Who put them up there? What _were_ stars? He would make Ichigo tell him in the morning, because Ichigo would know the answer. He was stupid and useless, but he was useful for human things. Grimmjow would ask him in the morning and then he would know what they were the next time he looked at them.

Something soft brushed against his arm and he startled, eyes wide and looking around to see what it was that had—

_Oh_.

Grimmjow curled forward, crouching down on his hands and knees, eyes wide as he chased after the trail of the little glowing bug that had bumped into him. It flew over the grassline like it was drunk, weaving left and right and up and down with no focus or direction. It _glowed_, a greenish-yellow light gave away its position no matter where it was.

_Stupid bug,_ he thought to himself as he rolled his shoulders. _Lookin’ like that’s gonna get you killed._

But then he noticed another bug, its trail intertwining with the first one, their flights weirdly synchronized as they flew around one another in a flight that may as well have been a dance. He watched them for a moment before sitting up and realizing that there were...more than just one or two...there were dozens—no, _hundreds_ of the fuckin’ things! Grimmjow couldn’t turn his head fast enough to watch all of them, but they were everywhere in the clearing, resting in the grass, in the trees, floating lazily to and fro and just...just….

He couldn’t take it any longer and sprung out into the middle of the clearing, rolling through the grass and forcing the tiny glowing bugs to take flight. A small cloud of them took to the air and Grimmjow swiped at them, trying to catch one. They were so small though, that despite their easy-to-follow lights he couldn’t even snag _one_. But that didn’t matter, there were plenty more and not all of them could have the same luck. Climbing to his feet, he chased after another, then another, and still _another_ without any luck.

But….

_But_...his chest felt lighter. His head felt clear and his body felt like it could just float away on its own. He leapt into the air, fingers spread as he swatted about, and then rolled back into the grass when he came back down. The grass was soft and smelled sweet. It tickled his skin and felt nice to just lay in. He didn’t know why—Hueco Mundo hadn’t had grass either. The trees weren’t even real trees, just weird, spiky crystal constructs that no one knew anything about. The human world was so...it was so _alive_, pulsing with fucking energy, like it had its own heartbeat.

_Fuck_, he didn’t know. It sounded stupid when he thought about it. He wasn’t one for words and everything that came to mind just sounded soft and unlike himself. He could always blame Ichigo for making him feel this way, but Ichigo was asleep in his tent and missing out on what was going on. But...he probably had already seen these stars before, and he probably already knew about the glowing bugs.

Suddenly bored, Grimmjow flopped back in the grass and folded his arms behind his head to resume watching the night sky. The stars didn’t move, just sat in the same still patterns and twinkled occasionally. Humans really didn’t understand how lucky they were. He doubted any one of them would last a single day in Hueco Mundo. They’d go insane or wind up eaten by one of the wild Hollows.

But _damn_...they were real fuckin’ lucky...and they didn’t even _know_ it yet.

Grimmjow felt his eyelids begin to droop after a while. He wasn’t sleepy at all. No way. But he yawned because he had seen Ichigo do it and it felt like something he should be doing if he was gonna be laying back like he was. His jaw cracked a little but it felt good. That’s why Ichigo yawned so much then.

But he wasn’t tired.

Nah, he was just gonna close his eyes for a little bit and thinking about tomorrow’s plans. The stars were too fuckin’ bright anyway. How could Ichigo even sleep with all the light? Humans were just...they were just...fuckin’...._weird_….

  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *runs in three months late with Starbucks*
> 
> You guys have no idea how crazy my life got like the week after I posted the last chapter. I still have a job, thankfully, but it's just been crazy busy and feeling like I don't have a social life or any time to myself, but HERE IS A BRAND NEW CHAPTER!! I won't lie I struggled SO HARD with this one. I originally was going in a completely different direction, got like four or five pages in and scrapped it because I wasn't feeling it, and this one felt better but man...it did NOT want to be written. Getting this one out was a lot like pulling teeth, but it's HERE, I didn't die, I haven't abandoned this story, and I WILL keep writing, but, with everything going on and as crazy weird as my work has been, I can't guarantee any kind of timeframe as to when the next chapter will be out. 
> 
> But thank you to everyone who has read up until this point, to all my new readers who have recently come across, and to everyone who left kudos and especially comments! Rereading all the wonderful comments you guys left gave me the strength to continue even when I didn't feel like writing, and I treasure you guys very much! I hope this makes up for the wait! Don't forget to leave a review if you feel like it!

_ “Grimmjow, what am I supposed to do with you?” _

_Aizen sat on top of his throne and looked down with that expression on his face Grimmjow could never fucking figure out. What was that look supposed to be anyway? There wasn’t even a flicker of expression, just a serene smile and half lidded eyes—perfect neutrality, like it was on purpose or something. Like he didn’t **want** any of them getting close enough to know what he was thinking. He even kept what’s-his-face at arm’s length. Both of ‘em._

_ Even Halibel, for all her preening and preaching, could only see so far past the surface of his skin. _

_Grimmjow flexed his fingers, curling them toward his palm like the talons he wished they were. He could always **rip** it out of him. Fucking Aizen, perched so pretty on his big bleached throne...it was no better than a pile of Hollow bones, ‘cause that was what it took to get him this far. His attempts to construct a palace were laughable; there was nothing out there but white sands and black nights. _

_ Grimmjow wondered...if he tore Aizen’s throat open...would he bleed? Would his blood paint the sand red, or were his insides just as empty as the outside? He licked his lips, contemplating the forbidden, the blasphemous. If he killed their Creator...would the others suffer a fool...or would they kill him too? Heh. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, going all out and throwing everything he had at his ‘siblings’. There wasn’t much to do in this fucking wasteland, and he had been bored long before Aizen came along and made him Less.  _

_Maybe he could dig his hands down into his guts and find what that **man** had taken away from him. Maybe if he dug deep enough he’d find his fangs and his claws and his fur. Maybe...**maybe** he could **unmake** himself._

_ “Grimmjow,” Aizen called out, his voice little more than a silky purr that immediately made the hair on the back of Grimmjow’s neck stand on end. _

_ “I know what you’re thinking.” _

_ “Eh?” Grimmjow said, pretending to yawn. “I wasn’t thinkin’ anything. Just bored.” _

_ “You’re always bored. You think I don’t know that by now?” _

_ “Tch. Whatever.” _

_“Ahhh, Grimmjow,” Aizen sighed, crossing one leg over the other and steepling his fingers together. Grimmjow scowled, recognizing the warning signs of an oncoming lecture, but he didn’t dare move from where he stood. For all his dark musings, he knew better than to turn his back on Aizen after he had been summoned. But he couldn’t help his defiance; it burned too brightly inside of him, took hold of his insides and twisted them until it **hurt** to stand there like an obedient little minion. This wasn’t who he was, and this wasn’t what he had fuckin’ agreed to. Aizen had **lied** to him, to **all** of them...but more and more it felt like he was the only one who gave a damn._

_He sneered and dropped down in a squat, resting his elbows on his knees. The threat of what **might** happen may have been enough to keep him there, but no amount of narrowed eyes and oppressive auras was going to make him behave himself. Respect was something the others gave away, freely, like they were just lookin’ for an excuse to lick someone else’s boots. But not him. Not Grimmjow. No, he wouldn’t lower himself to that point. He’d play along, toe the line, but the moment he felt like stepping out of place and taking care of **his** desires? Yeah, Aizen wasn’t gonna fuckin’ stop him._

_“Show some **respect**,” Tozen growled from the shadows. Grimmjow didn’t so much as glance in his direction, but instead rolled his tongue around his mouth and then spat at the floor. The sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath reached his ears, but that’s as far as the Shinigami dog got. _

_ “Now, now,” Aizen said, his smile still present but empty, “have restraint, Tozen. This is just his way. He doesn’t mean anything by it.” _

** _ Fuck you, _ ** _ Grimmjow thought, incensed at being told what his own actions were supposed to mean or not mean. Was there **nothing** Aizen wasn’t willing to take from him?_

_He could attack now, just launch up those chalky stairs and rip Aizen’s heart out. He could fucking **kill** him and just take back what was rightfully **his**...maybe get everyone back the thing they were missing. They didn’t have to say nothin’ to him or thank him—they didn’t hafta acknowledge him like that. It wasn’t like he was fuckin’ blind. Anyone could look at Barrigan and see how diminished he was. Nnoitra was still as fuckin’ crazy as always, nothin’ had changed about that. Maybe he had been better off on his own. Maybe **all** of them would have been better off left to themselves. _

_From there on the ground he could still see the subtle flutter of a pulse beneath the skin of Aizen’s neck. Shinigami were only spirits, weren’t they? How come they had heartbeats then? How come they bled, how come **any** of them bled, when they were all just...just fuckin’ shadows or whatever. Grimmjow didn’t think about it often—hell, he didn’t think of it at all. That was the existential sort of bullshit better left to Ulquiorra and Starrk. _

** _ He _ ** _ didn’t care. _

_ “You’re doing it again,” Aizen said, leaning forward on his throne and peering down at Grimmjow. _

_ “Doin’ what?” Grimmjow asked petulantly.  _

_Aizen just smiled and stood up. It was hard to say what that felt like, watchin’ him just rise—every movement he made was so fluid, so fuckin’ graceful. Grimmjow didn’t know anyone else who moved like that. And it wasn’t like he really paid all that close attention, but when Aizen did **anything** it was kinda impossible not to stop and watch, ‘cause it was just so...strange. He moved through them like something transient, like mist or smoke. No one could really read him and no one could ever really take hold of him. He just seemed to...slip away at times._

_“I think it’s high time you and I had a little chat,” he said as he began to descend the stairs. One stupid boot at a time, slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew Grimmjow wasn’t gonna go anywhere. Like he **knew** Grimmjow wasn’t gonna say no or fight back._

_ “Chat ‘bout what?” he asked, glaring up at Aizen but not moving to stand himself. _

_ "Come," Aizen said, clasping his hands behind his back. He started walking and that was the cue, wasn't it? Grimmjow tsk'd again. He wanted to stay where he was. He didn’t want to give Aizen the satisfaction obedience would no doubt bring. He didn’t wanna play his fuckin’ game. _

_ But, like a puppet with strings attached to every limb, Grimmjow rose to his feet and turned to follow after his Creator. _

_“Fuck,” he whispered to himself. “**Fuck!**”_

_ “Language, Grimmjow,” Aizen said pleasantly, looking over his shoulder with another knowing smile. _

_ Grimmjow hissed, but fell into step behind him. _

_ Like a good boy. _

_Like a fuckin’ **pet**._

_And lucky **him**, Aizen enjoyed his goddamn walks. Grimmjow just stopped paying attention to where they were going after five minutes. He rarely paid attention to the architecture of Aizen’s palace on a good day, and exploring never really captured his interest. Not even the promise of something different or new could rouse his normally incurable curiosity. Aizen just wandered aimlessly, hands behind his back, his stride even and smooth. **Snakelike**, the way he moved._

_ Grimmjow scowled at his back, stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, and kicked at the ground as he followed. _

_ “Care to tell me what’s on your mind?” Aizen asked. Grimmjow flinched and immediately hated himself for it. _

_ “Thought you already knew,” he grumbled. _

_“But I enjoy our little conversations…and, naturally, I’m very interested in what you have to say. I want **all** of you to feel as though you can talk to me freely.”_

** _ Bullshit _ ** _ , Grimmjow thought to himself.  _

_ “There’s nothin’ t’ talk about,” he said aloud, tilting his head from side to side ‘til his neck cracked. “‘M not thinkin’ ‘bout anything.” _

_Aizen hummed and led Grimmjow up a twisting set of stairs he had never seen before. Smooth marble walls pressed in on him from all sides, ‘til he felt like he couldn’t breathe properly. He scratched at his chest a little, feeling his skin grow a little too tight, squeezing his bones and his muscles and collapsing his lungs. Was it the walls or Aizen? **Fuck**, he couldn’t...he couldn’t **stand** this. Where was Aizen taking him?_

_His Creator didn’t look back, though, didn’t give any indication at all whether he was aware of the effect...the effect all this was having on Grimmjow. Maybe he didn’t care...or maybe he fuckin’ **knew** and was doin’ it on purpose. **Asshole**. Goddamn fuckin’ **asshole**!_

_ “What do you think?” _

_ Grimmjow looked up from the last step and stared for a moment. The endless night sky stretched beyond the white parapets of the castle, meeting the sloping dunes of sand in the horizon. Could it still be considered night without stars or a moon? He had seen stars, once before, when he had been allowed to enter the human world while on a lowkey mission with Halibel. Looking up at the sky, he had felt an ache in his chest that felt so much like his heart had been scooped out of him. Halibel had fuckin’ noticed, too, and she had acted differently with him. _

_ ‘They’re only stars,’ she had said, her voice melancholic. ‘Nothing so special.’ _

_ ‘I remember stars,’ he had said, still staring like a fuckin’ idiot, his neck aching and his eye watering for no damn reason. ‘They’re...neat.’ _

_That was when she had started actin’ all **weird**. Soft an’ shit, which wasn’t like her. She hadn’t tried to hurry him along, but stood next to him and coolly pointed out some stars that made shapes—constellations, she had called them, and just like that a switch had flipped in his brain and he remembered that word, remembered constellations and could even recall a couple of the names: Leo and Draco. Gemini. The names came back to him like tiny pockets of air bubbling to the surface of a thick sludge. Grimmjow remembered the wonderment...but then the shame that had quickly followed. He had scoffed and shrugged and had made some remark about ‘so fuckin’ what’, they were just stars and weren’t important. Who cared?_

_He also remembered the warm weight of Halibel’s hand on his shoulder, which he had shrugged off. He didn’t want her pity. So what if he hadn’t remembered until that moment? So what? He couldn’t remember a **lot** of things, but that didn’t make him stupid! He wouldn’t give anyone the chance to call him such either._

_But Aizen...Halibel must have fuckin’ told him, that stupid, simpering **slut**. She was so fuckin’ desperate to please Aizen, so willing to lay down at his feet and do whatever thing he told her to do, just for the chance to be **useful**. She used to be a fuckin’ queen...and look at her now. Grimmjow caught himself snarling at nothing and quickly turned his head before Aizen could see the way his lip curled and bared his fang, but it was too late. He could feel the other’s piercing gaze on him, sharp as a knife and just as deadly._

_ “I don’t care,” Grimmjow forced himself to say. “I don’t fuckin’ care, it’s just...it’s th’ same fuckin’ view. I can go anywhere an’ see this.So what?” _

_He felt Aizen’s eyes boring holes through the side of his head. He didn’t wanna turn an’ look, but...but what if Aizen was finally tired of him? What if this was all some kind of weird test? What if...what if Aizen brought him up here to **kill** him?_

** _ Movement _ ** _ on his right. Grimmjow’s head snapped to the side and he blinked owlishly, eyes wide as he took a step back. Aizen just...he was just **looking** at him and he hadn’t moved but...but Grimmjow could have **sworn** he saw...that he had **felt** something...like...like a blade to this throat. _

_ But Aizen was just standing there, giving him a look that told Grimmjow he was acting like a fuckin’ crazy person. _

_“You’re so paranoid,” Aizen said quietly, sighing and placing both hands on the parapet and resting his weight. “I had wondered if it was a byproduct of your inherent nature...and I had **hoped** you would learn to be more at ease. I’m not going to hurt you.”_

_Grimmjow could barely swallow, though a lump of **something** sat heavy in his throat, lodged like a stone. For a moment it felt like he couldn’t even **breathe**._

_ “Do you hate this so much? Do you hate everything I’ve done for you?” _

_Aizen sounded...not sad. He never sounded anything other than himself—smug, a little condescending, and secretive. This wasn’t the same, but he definitely didn’t sound sad or anything. Grimmjow wasn’t sure he **could** feel any real emotions. He was **Aizen**, he just...he didn’t have moments of weakness. He didn’t **doubt** or **fear** or question anything. He was always so fuckin’ sure of himself and never looked back ‘cause all his perfect little plans always fell perfectly into place, just the way he anticipated. Aizen didn’t worry or wonder about things. He wasn’t like the rest of them, in more ways than one._

_ He wasn’t a Hollow...and he didn’t need to ask Grimmjow if he hated everything...he already fuckin’ knew...didn’t he? _

_ “I don’t—,” Grimmjow started. _

_“**Lies**,” Aizen interrupted. “Don’t feed me **lies**, Grimmjow. I know you too well. You’re a **terrible** liar.”_

_“I don’t **hate** it,” Grimmjow spat out, quickly, before the words would refuse to come out. “An’ I’m not lyin’.”_

_ “Then what is it? What’s that look on your face I see so often?” _

_ “What look?” _

_ “Disgust. Like you’d rather be anywhere else. Like you’re barely able to tolerate the others.” _

** _ Don’t you know? _ ** _ Grimmjow wanted to ask.  **Why don’t you fuckin’ know? It’s obvious, ain’t it? How come you don’t know?** _

_ “I’m bored,” he said, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I don’t like bein’ stuck here. I wanna...I don’t wanna be like….” _

** _ I wanna be free. I don’t wanna be like Halibel. _ **

_ “I’m just tired of waitin’ around for fuckin’ nothin’,” he finished, tasting the lie and wondering if Aizen could still see through him.  _

_ “That’s because you’re impatient,” Aizen said, straightening up once again and crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve always been so unwilling to play by the rules, or follow the plan. You’d rather be on your own, doing things your way. Am I right?” _

_“**Yeah**,” Grimmjow said desperately, latching onto Aizen’s understanding and holding tight like—like he could somehow follow this thread of thought and make his Creator see the world through his eyes, and not whatever vision Aizen held onto. He couldn’t be kept like a goddamn pet. He couldn’t **be** what the others were. He had his purpose, served a function, yeah, but it couldn’t be the same as the others. He just...he wasn’t made to live that kind of subservient life. He wasn’t...he wasn’t what Aizen wanted him to be and he never would be. _

_ “I see,” Aizen said. “You’re very easy to read—it’s written all over your face.” _

_ Grimmjow hauled himself onto the edge of the parapet and let his legs dangle over the side. They were hundreds of feet from the ground, but the height didn’t scare him. _

_ “If you knew, why’d you ask?” he shot back, his tone challenging.  _

_ “I already told you, I enjoy a good conversation.” _

_“‘Kay, but **why?**”_

_ “...you don’t think very much of me...do you.” _

** _ No _ ** _, he wanted to say. **Fuck no**, because Aizen had taken him and given him empty promises, had told him he would be stronger and better, and all he had done was make him **less** than he was before. He kept him trapped in Hueco Mundo, where nothing grew and nothing lived and Hollows howled into the sky and the hole in his stomach felt bigger and bigger with every moment he spent languishing in the empty halls of Aizen’s stupid fuckin’ castle._

_Hueco Mundo was **empty**...and, in turn, so was Grimmjow. So were **all** of them, and they were too fuckin’ blind to see it._

_ “You’re our leader,” Grimmjow said, practiced words Ulquiorra had pounded into him ages ago.  _

_ 'Remember that, if nothing else,' his sibling had told him. It had been a warning in the moment, a thinly veiled threat for Grimmjow to watch himself, to mind his manners...in retrospect, it might have also been some kind of twisted advice. Tell him what he wants to hear and no one gets hurt, right? Just blindly obey and everything will come out alright. _

_ “Is that all I am to you?” _

_Grimmjow frowned and took a chance to stare back at Aizen. He met his gaze and it was just...it was like…. Aizen’s eyes were brown. Not warm or anything—he didn’t think Aizen could feel warmth. He was...cold. He was like a..a fuckin’ void an’ all he did was **take** from them. He kept them in the dark and held onto his plans and his secrets and told them only so much as he wanted them to know and nothing more. He said he trusted them and yet treated them like they were gonna betray him the first chance they got—and he had the nerve to call **Grimmjow **paranoid._

_ “Tch,” Grimmjow scoffed. “What d’ya fuckin’ want? Poetry?”  _

_ He looked back out over the sands and drew one leg up so he could rest his chin on his knee. Whatever Aizen was fishin’ for, he wasn’t gonna get it from Grimmjow.  _

_ “Ha. I suppose not.” _

_ A warm weight landed on Grimmjow’s head and it took him the span between one breath and the next to realize it was Aizen’s hand. He froze in place, his entire spine stiff and every muscle tense as he waited to see what it was that his Creator was going to do—punish him, maybe? Rip his head off? Crush his skull? He had seen Aizen kill before, once. It wasn’t often he dirtied his own hands and especially not in front of the Espada, but Grimmjow had seen it happen once...and once was all it had taken for him to understand that there wasn’t any way he could fight back and win. _

_ His blood ran cold in his veins and his hollow hole yawned wide. _

_ He was gonna die. _

_ He was gonna fuckin’ die and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. _

_ But Aizen just...his hand just stayed there, his fingers scratching against Grimmjow’s scalp, petting him….petting him like he was...like he was some kinda fuckin’.... _

_ “You’re different from the others,” Aizen said. “Don’t think I don’t understand that...it’s what I enjoy about you, Grimmjow. Your defiance, your strength, your refusal to bow your head—” _

_“I bow to **no one**,” Grimmjow growled, unable to help himself. He reached up and gripped Aizen’s wrist tight, shoving it away from his head._

_“Of course,” Aizen said, allowing it, his voice taking on a bemused undertone and his expression...different again, still secretive but there was a smile that **seemed** genuine, not so empty to the point where Grimmjow could **almost** believe it was...that he fuckin’ **meant** it and that he wasn’t just some unreachable, impossible-to-know being who just sat on his throne above all of them and watched them run around doing his bidding like little bugs. It didn’t make him **human** or anything...but in that brief moment Grimmjow felt a warmth in his chest he couldn’t identify and it made him feel like maybe he didn’t **have** to be such a fucking asshole all of the time._

_ Is that...is that what Halibel felt, whenever Aizen looked at her like that? Did his smile make her feel warm? Was that what kept Nnoitra from falling too deep into despair? Did it make Starrk and Lilynette feel less lonely? Did it quell his own destructive urges? He didn’t know, and he didn’t know how to find those answers without losing a part of himself, ‘cause asking the others was out of the fuckin’ question. _

** _ Fuck _ ** _ , he didn’t know what to do anymore.  _

_ “Don’t tell the others,” Aizen purred, “but you’ve always been one of my favorites. Your fiery spirit...it’s refreshing, having to deal with you. I hope you never lose that part of yourself.” _

_ Grimmjow stared. _

_ “In fact...you rather remind me of someone I met once.” _

_ “Who?” _

_ “Hm. A Soul Reaper. He was...unique. Same brazen spirit, willing to throw his entire being into the fight even though he stood no chance of winning.” _

_“Sounds like a fuckin’ idiot,” Grimmjow snapped, even though he couldn’t deny his interest had been piqued. Was Aizen talkin’ about...someone who had tried to fight **him**? Like...some suicidal moron had actually tried to stand up to him? What kinda...what kinda **loser** would have the **balls**?_

** _ An idiot, _ ** _ he told himself.  **Not worth my time. Not worth a second look.** _

_ Oh...but what if it  **was?** _

_“Perhaps,” Aizen said. “He may have been foolish, but...he possesses **real** power. Immature and unrefined, but the potential is immense. I’d like to see what he makes of himself someday….”_

_Grimmjow **scowled**. Who th’ hell was this guy, that he deserved Aizen’s praise like that? No one was **that** powerful...besides, it sounded like he had lost anyway, so what was the point of giving him any kind of credit? Losers were losers...**period**._

_“So what’s his name?” Grimmjow asked, feigning boredom. He didn’t care. He **didn’t**. Even if his insides ached to meet someone who could provide him the **challenge** that he craved, he wasn’t **desperate**. _

** _ But what’s his name? _ ** _ he thought to himself. Who was he, that he impressed Aizen so much, that he managed to hold his own long enough to make the kind of impression that was worth being passed along, even though he had **lost**? _

_ “Ichigo,” Aizen said, softly. He said the name like it had a taste, like there was something to be gained from rolling the syllables around his tongue. “I don’t expect you to remember it...but should you meet him in the near future...don’t underestimate him.” _

_“Tch,” Grimmjow sneered, “**you** don’t get t’ decide who’s worth my time.”_

_ “I wouldn’t enjoy forcing you to fight,” Aizen cordially agreed, “but you’d regret it if you didn’t.” _

_He...he couldn’t tell if that was a threat or a warning...maybe it was both. Regardless, Grimmjow rolled his shoulders in a shrug and pressed his cheek against the curve of his knee, looking away from Aizen. He felt fingers in his hair again, teasing and touching when he hadn’t given permission. Whatever, he was too exhausted to fight it. He wasn’t a goddamn **pet**...but at least Aizen wasn’t **treating** him like one. Besides...who **was** Ichigo?_

_ His mind tried to wrap around it, the existence of someone whose spirit burned as brightly as his, someone who could fight, who threw everything they had at enemies that outclassed and outranked them in every way and kept going even when winning wasn’t a possibility. He tried to think about what drove a person like that...what motive they could possibly have to keep going against all odds. _

_“**Fuck**,” he whispered to himself as Aizen’s fingers slid against his scalp, fucking up his hair and making him feel strange. His insides twisted, but this time he didn’t try to shove the hand away. _

_“Don’t worry,” Aizen said, scratching Grimmjow’s head, “I don’t doubt you two will meet...like I said, he’s **unique**...as are you.”_

_“I don’t fuckin’ **care**,” Grimmjow mumbled. “He’s prob’ly not worth th’ effort.”_

_ “Regardless.” _

_Grimmjow **burned** to know. Aizen had known what to say and how to play him, he knew exactly how to press those buttons that would elicit a response and he had stood there and done absolutely nothing other than the bare fuckin’ minimum, and Grimmjow had danced for him just like a fuckin’ puppet. ‘I just want to talk to you…’ yeah right, fuckin’ asshole, fuckin’ **snake**. Aizen didn’t care what he thought or what he had to say, he just wanted to gain one up on him, wanted to lure him into another leash so he’d have a reason to obey. Aizen fuckin’ dangling the promise of a good fight in front of his nose like a piece of raw, juicy meat, **knowing **Grimmjow wasn’t gonna ignore an opportunity like this, no matter how much he feigned disinterest._

_‘Cause yeah, he **was** bored. _

_He was bored an’ tired an’ so fuckin’ **done** with laying around doin’ nothin’ at all day in an’ day out, waiting for Aizen to come up with another scheme or for him to be ready to enact another part of his ‘plan’. He had already destroyed so much, had butted heads with Ulquiorra, Halibel, an’ even Barrigan. Tosen was at his throat more often than not an’ even that fox-faced nuisance had given him a sly warning from the shadows about watching his back. He couldn’t keep fighting against nothing. What would be left for him to destroy if he kept attacking the walls that Aizen erected? _

_ He had already lost so much...he couldn’t afford any more. It’d kill him.  _

_It would **kill** him._

_So he just...fuckin’ sat there on the parapet and let Aizen touch his head, trying to ignore the warm feeling welling up inside of him that he guessed must have felt like a cup being filled up with hot tea. It wasn’t unpleasant but it confused him. Why was Aizen petting him? What did it mean? **Why did it matter so much?** _

_Grimmjow closed his eyes and forced himself to give in to the sensation. It wasn’t like it was totally unpleasant. The warm feeling persisted, made him feel like his muscles and bones were slowly turning to liquid, made him want to lean into it and just...just let Aizen keep doing what he was doing. Even though he wasn’t a goddamn **lapdog**._

_ “Grimmjow.” _

_ “Hm?” he hummed. _

_ “Grimmjow.” _

_ “What?” _

** _ “Grimmjow?” _ **

He woke up.

Opened his eyes and the sun was there, peeking over the treeline, and there was Ichigo, bent over him with his hand tucked up in his hair like he had any right to fuckin’ touch him so comfortably. 

Grimmjow blinked and then _snarled_, rolling onto his side and pulling away. He got to his hands and knees and quickly popped up to his feet, ignoring the fuzzy sensation in his limbs. 

“I wasn’t asleep!” he said, immediately defensive as he brushed off stray greenery and tiny bugs clinging to his jumpsuit. 

“Sure looked that way,” Ichigo said, staring at him.

_ Looking _ , with his eyes like that, brown like...like….

_ No _ , not like Aizen’s. Ichigo’s eyes were brown, but they couldn’t be more different. Grimmjow stared back and he could name things like _concern_ and _warmth_ mixed up in Ichigo’s entire expression. He searched for _pity_ but saw none, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed by it. Ichigo just sat there on the ground, still on his knees and looking up with that curious expression on his face like he was worried but not about to say anything. Curious, but not so nosy he was gonna start pokin’ around. 

_ Hmph _ .

“Well?” Grimmjow asked, sticking his hands in his pockets, “whad’ya want?”

“Huh?” Ichigo asked, his face scrunching. “It’s daybreak...didn’t you wanna keep fighting?”

Oh yeah. 

The _promise_.

“Oh yeah,” Grimmjow said, and then immediately began stripping down to his waist. No time like the present to work off his frustration. He’d just fucking pound Ichigo until all thoughts of Aizen were obliterated alongside his pretty little face. Maybe it wouldn’t be fair to take out all that anger on Ichigo, who hadn’t really done anything to deserve it, he guessed, but sometimes the ends justified the means. He was certain, if Ichigo could understand, he’d agree.

Ichigo watched him with a guarded expression and then climbed back to his feet. He was already wearing his shinigami robes, which meant he had expected to get the ball immediately rolling; good thinking on his part, though Grimmjow didn’t really give a shit. Promises were promises, right? This was what he _deserved_, this is what he had _earned_, and Ichigo was gonna give him everything he wanted until he was sick and fucking tired of it, and if that meant fighting until the bones in his hands shattered and his skin scraped raw and bloody, if it meant going until his heart exploded then so be it.

This way was the best way, the _only_ way he was gonna get over this. Fuckin’ dreams, fuckin’ _sleep_, fuckin’ _Aizen_.

“Let’s go,” Grimmjow said, rushing Ichigo in the next moment, swinging his fist as hard and as fast as he could, aiming for the dead center of his opponent’s face. He saw Ichigo’s eyes widen in the split second it took for him to barely raise his arms in defense—and it didn’t matter, ‘cause it was too little too late, and Grimmjow felt his fist make a hard connection with the rigid line of Ichigo’s nose, heard something _crack_, and felt the warmth of fresh blood spurt across his knuckles.

Ichigo shouted in pain and shock.

Grimmjow felt the bones of his mask separate as a grin stretched his lips too wide and bared too many of his teeth.

Yeah, this was the _best_ way.


End file.
